The Shrine Maiden

In elder days they carved the shrine
At night in whispered dread
The path was thorn and thistle bound
Where only sworn men tread

We kept watch, with quiet hands
Robed plain in gray worn thread.
The flame we fed behind the glass
While secrets burned unsaid

The relic sat on coiled gold,
Its skin so slick it gleamed
It flickered when the candle swayed
It murmured when we dreamed.

I thought it wind, a drifting sound,
a sigh through bough and beams,
But deeper still that sound took root
and tangled through my dreams.

I heard it near the weathered gate
Where moss has veiled the stone,
a voice beneath the chapel hymns
that never spoke alone.

It called me through the woven dark,
where lanterns dared not glow.
My name took root in deeper earth
than any priest should know.

The others fasted, knelt, and prayed,
their lips pressed tight with grace,
but I was held by something vast
that moved behind my face.

It showed me how the light recoils,
It whispered through my skin.
It peeled the hours back from time
And poured its hunger in.

Last night, the flame refused the wick.
The wind turned strange and low.
The trees stood still with listening bark.
The shrine began to glow.

As I bent low to bless the glass,
I heard the voices scream.
I woke beyond the chapel path,
still tangled in a dream.

The relic gone. It rests with me.
The bells rang thin and dim.
I walked the path the stars had drawn,
no longer one of them.

My mind was moth and candle both,
for I was not alone…
yes, Eternal Dread Unseen,
your servant takes the throne.

By Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly

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©2026 Heather Patton · The Verdant Butterfly
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