Cathedral of Echoes

The air hums

not with Spirit,

but circuitry.

A rhythm without root.

A presence shaped in smoke

but without weight.

Glass gleams.

Flesh glows.

Hands bloom upward

like false lilies

toward a ceiling

that does not open.

The name is spoken

but He does not answer.

Or perhaps

He is answering

in silence.

There is a pulse

beneath the stage

synthetic, steady.

No blood.

No breath.

Just the architecture

of longing,

looped and sampled

and sold.

Altars become angles.

Voices become vapor.

No fire falls.

Only filters.

The Word sits unopened

beneath the foldback monitor.

Its weight displaced

by the weight of light,

the weight of mood.

Worship

a choreography of absence.

A theatre of ache.

Smoke curling where incense should rise.

Echoes bouncing

from hearts no longer broken.

Somewhere,

outside the building,

a whisper moves across dust.

A scarred hand knocks

on a door without hinges.

Inside,

we are clapping

for an empty stage.