Cathedral of Shadows

The saddest lies
are ones we tell ourselves.

Church doors
inviting the disillusioned

who imagine

answers rest
in the chisel of stone
or lead seams on cobalt blue.

Eyes follow, someone
is speaking; we decipher

the language which sounds
both familiar and unfamiliar.

Does truth speak in tongues?

Ask the windows looking out
on the shifting shoulder
of day. Each step

leading us closer
to the mirrored hall,
cathedral of shadows.

One woman lifts a bronze arm,
another has no mouth

but we hear
a psalm; her name.
We chant liturgy,
disguise ourselves with veils,
fickle light.