Cathedral, Crumbling

The God you forgot to pray to

is waiting at the end of the aisle,

disguised in emerald for ordinary time.

Your feet thump as you walk toward him,

a nerve-wracking echo reaching up at

the sky. Stained glass windows invite in

the light, creating a celestial mirage

that greets skeptical eyes.

Sweet-smelling incense tickles

the throat, stings the nose.

There is a strange sort of fog that

fills this cavernous space, this

place of relapsed time. It is

a gore and glory you cannot find

outside—a perpetual wanting

inside your half-changed mind.

When the angels sing their hymn,

you feel your body sinking through

dark wooden pews, returning to

the wormy earth beneath your calloused

feet. You wait for the seraphs to

reveal themselves—their white robes,

their gentle smiles. Behind the marble

alter they rise, wings battered but fine.

A stone-cold Jesus hangs below

the canopy, eyes shut and rolled up high.

Only half the candles flicker their light,

melting subtly on his either side.

It takes all your might to remain

upright—your knees and the floor

are like magnets; it’s high time you

return to this nagging golden shrine.