by Lynn "Tempest" Butler
**Editor's Note: first place winner of the Friday night Poetry Tourney at ToC 2018 **
I am a cathedral with walls made of worn down
stone and windows made from perfectly etched glass, my doors made of the finest
oak and my ceilings painted by the artists who captured my memories. My
beautiful silver bell lays up top to bless the ears who hear it’s song.
The floors do creak from years of wear and my pews have knots and indents from years of having visitors sit and weep to the tall alter that welcomes all. My oak doors acting as my arms, always open for those who wish to enter, my alter that of emotion for you to lay out what you wish. To leave it there in safety’s unconscious state.
Though it’s been years since a visitor has traveled within, the many that used to once come and weep now flee to other cathedrals while I am left to degrade with time. My windows are smudged by old handprints and the glasses color now faded. My doors need oil at the hinges but they still rest in an open position for any that walk in.
My alter still lays at the center stage, the items placed upon it cover with dust, but left there, never forgotten. The pews stay the same as none have come to sit and pray and weep, and confess. My floors creak still but this time due to the foundations movements instead of footsteps.
Though I am an empty cathedral my body still stays, for those who have remembered but don’t return I understand. For those who don’t remember and stumble back to me I welcome thee. My oak arms are always open.
My arms stay open though my shoulders and elbows crack and pop, my eyes though smudged by tears stay a glazed glass, my alter...my heart, stays open to those who wish to place anything within it. My brain, the cathedral bell, only rings twice. The day I opened my arms and the day they finally close.
The floors do creak from years of wear and my pews have knots and indents from years of having visitors sit and weep to the tall alter that welcomes all. My oak doors acting as my arms, always open for those who wish to enter, my alter that of emotion for you to lay out what you wish. To leave it there in safety’s unconscious state.
Though it’s been years since a visitor has traveled within, the many that used to once come and weep now flee to other cathedrals while I am left to degrade with time. My windows are smudged by old handprints and the glasses color now faded. My doors need oil at the hinges but they still rest in an open position for any that walk in.
My alter still lays at the center stage, the items placed upon it cover with dust, but left there, never forgotten. The pews stay the same as none have come to sit and pray and weep, and confess. My floors creak still but this time due to the foundations movements instead of footsteps.
Though I am an empty cathedral my body still stays, for those who have remembered but don’t return I understand. For those who don’t remember and stumble back to me I welcome thee. My oak arms are always open.
My arms stay open though my shoulders and elbows crack and pop, my eyes though smudged by tears stay a glazed glass, my alter...my heart, stays open to those who wish to place anything within it. My brain, the cathedral bell, only rings twice. The day I opened my arms and the day they finally close.
