We walk quietly along the side
of the towering cathedral,
not flinching once as the bells
crack
into the night,
scattering anguish and despair
to the far corners of each
(un)holy stone.
He wrestled with laughter,
and hoped demons would fall
like raindrops from the sky
so he could cast off
the evil spirits
of his awakenings.
I look vacantly
at the crumbling cathedral,
which seems to fall apart
more and more
before my very eyes,
with all the weight of prayer
we had placed inside the sandstones
and locked away in the crypt
to be visitied only by the dead,
or at the darkest moment of midnight;
for it is always locked to those
who walk only in the day.
We enter the temple
and quiet at the waves
that ripple across the stone floor,
drowning our courage
to simply admire the art
hanging desperately,
like crucified dreams
upon walls that seem to reach up
to taunt and pierce
the soft underbelly
of the night sky.
Our steps quicked, as all these
doors are locked, for
this great devotion
is crumbling
around us.
Yet far away, past the grove of fig trees,
a city pulses
drawing its strength
like a scavenger
from the decomposing ancientness
of a once sacred land.
And we leave quickly,
and journey home,
knowing soon tomorrow will come
when I will have to stand
like those pillars of stone,
as he leaves for another day,
the city of life drinking up
the mortal words
that pulse still in the veins
of the dying cathedral;
prayer the last hope
for tomorrow.