The eyes of the icon

are slitted-sly,

they slide to one side,

obsidian-dark,

pooled with secrets

lidded tight.

The penitents hobble

kerchief-cowled;

foetal in focus, hands curled

marsupial -

wave a shadowy cross

of vague remorse.

The dust-dry nun

perfunctorily disinfects,

reinstates, consecrates

every dozenth kiss;

sour her face,

this cold Christ bride.

The raptor-man

lisp-whispers, fervid,

mouse-trap focused,

head hooked forward,

dark wings

envelop him.

I stumble outside,

blink as bright fingers

bless my face.

Let candles and incense

infest dark alcoves

where they belong.

Note: The image I've attached here is not the one I saw. Some description will therefore not tally.