Beneath the vaulted tomb of time
three sacred flames are held in tension:
Faith, Memory, Revelation
a trinity not of gods
but of echoing voices
bound in ink & blood

We are summoned
into a story not our own
yet wholly ours
a scroll unrolling in shadowed halls
where every word, every wound
is etched into the stone

Generations kneel in dust
their prayers stacked like bones
in catacombs of thought
each breath a candle
lit for the souls to come

We are scribes of the eternal choir
gathering the sighs of ages
the cries of martyrs
the wisdom of the weary
and placing them upon the altar
of now

Reflection is a kind of resurrection
To reevaluate is to confess
To share is to baptize
the moment with meaning

And so the story grows
not as a straight line
but a spiral
winding ever inward
toward the heart of God