Penny for your thourght . . .food for thourght

The Pastor sings in notes quite high.
Hymns that the crowd dare not pass on by.
They sway in unison transfixed in Sunday bliss.
Hands clasped as upon their troubles they silently lament and reminisce.
Whilst mothers and fathers frown, eyes closed in undulated devotion.
Children scatter to wooden floors, imagination and wonder in motion.
Tracing make believe pictures with chubby fingers
and exploring every nook and cranny for lost treasures.
Little eyes in various colors of splendor
Grow wide with sparkling wonder.
As Godly hymns fuse with innocent plunder
In secret grandeur they scrape old rice from within wooden cracks and forgotten corners.
Silent specters to tears of joy and perhaps some sorrow.
Inanimate to the reality of tomorrow.
As they could have remained . . .
Old rice trapped within cracked (wood) floors
Never to be found  
Never to be swept out the doors.
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