Crystal in Congregation of Potato People. Model: Crystal A
Church of the Potato People
In the Church of the Tuber, where spuds convene,
A congregation of potato people, a sight unseen.
Their eyes, like russet orbs, fixed on the sacred ground,
As they gather in reverence, in silence profound.
Starch-filled hearts beat in unison, a tater’s devotion,
In pews of mashed delight, a tuberous emotion.
The pulpit adorned with skins, a priestly spud ascends,
Preaching the gospel of the harvest, where the potato life transcends.
But amid the devout, a stranger unknown,
A beauty in disguise, a presence all her own.
She, an outsider, a radiant yam,
In the sea of potatoes, a singular glam.
Her skin, a golden hue, not of earthly soil,
A sweet fragrance of difference, a celestial foil.
Yet, she hides among them, a secret delight,
In the congregation’s eyes, a clandestine light.
The potato people, unaware of her grace,
Continue their worship in the starchy space.
But the outsider listens, absorbing their prayer,
In the silence of tubers, a connection rare.
As the sermon concludes, and the congregation disbands,
The outsider reveals herself, a rose in the lands.
The potatoes, astonished, yet welcoming still,
In this diverse church, love trumps the thrill.
For in the Church of the Tuber, diversity blooms,
In the richness of differences, unity looms.
Potato people and yams, together they stand,
In the spud-filled sanctuary, hand in hand.
Church of the Damned. Model: Olinka Lickova
Olinka in the Church of the Damned
In the Church of the Damned, where shadows dance,
Olinka stands, exalted, a spectral trance.
Above the dark demons and undead wail,
She rises, a figure in a ghostly veil.
The air, thick with a greenish swampy haze,
Creeps through the crevasses, in a spectral daze.
The rotting basilica, a haunted stage,
Its pilasters crumble in an ancient age.
Olinka’s presence, a beacon in the gloom,
A silhouette against the haunted tomb.
Her eyes, pools of mystery, deep and vast,
Hold the secrets of a forgotten past.
Around her, the undead whisper in despair,
Demons bow in reverence, a macabre affair.
As the swampy mist encircles each decayed stone,
Olinka stands, in majesty, alone.
A symphony of darkness, a spectral ballet,
In the Church of the Damned, where shadows play.
Olinka, a queen in this ethereal domain,
In haunting beauty, she shall forever reign.
