Her heart is a cathedral. Bright stain-glassed windows, each a story to tell. So her own story is mapped out in ink across her breast. The entrance, tall imposing doors, not easily opened with gargoyles guarding each side, lips raised in stark, snarling warning. Beware. Yet, if you simply step past them, you’d find they have no real bite to them, no power at all to stop you.
Her heart is a cathedral. Built upon a firm foundation of tradition and genuflection and habit to sway. Towers for beauty filled with ages of whispered thoughts and of aching tears and of begging prayers. Listen. Each mote of dust carries a story, her story. In part or in whole.
Her heart is a cathedral. Its architecture carefully planned and laid out, designed by the Creator to inspire reverent awe and a desire to hold her dear, close to your own precious…
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