I stopped, stunned by flower- shrine—hidden, not shy— my companions, unenraptured, pulled us past. Could any see Tall stalks—rope tying keys to the papal tiara. I stared. They shone: Red flutes, chilled in the water- fall of Fall, ignite blankets of drizzle, sing fire into existence. Ferocious they stand; They stand—Sing fire into existence, despite cloaks failing to drown the inferno: Photons burst forth to catch our eyes do we see!—? Nearly— the fire glint of corneas, shimmering the gloom!— Yet we trod, surrounded, alone, to concrete-colored rooms: unchanging stockyards of thoughts so ancient they cease to live, yet the decrepit light is stoked by Cardinals whose cries smother the flutes’ fire. Screams of power’s passion— Christ’s blood shed as assurance Don’t you see? Promises—eternal life!— just hopes hoarded by the few to pacify the masses?—fire kept smoldering to heat empty buildings of beings less alive than the love they built to keep money in the coffers, prayers in the faithful, lust from living, flowers’ fire from pew-sat people. Yet they stand—I stop. Outside there is wailing, gnashing of teeth. The flames surge, I stand— staked—lover and beloved.