Lisa C. Taylor
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.
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