Where the Sound Was

There is a hum in the temple.

It mimics the holy

a trembling in the floorboards,

a wind that does not come from Heaven.

Hands rise like antennas,

catching signal,

not Spirit.

Voices swell

but the words are weightless,

floating on fog,

drifting through color and cue.

The altar is lit,

but not with fire.

No coals.

No cries.

Only glow.

We built a house of mirrors

and called it sanctuary.

But every face

reflects our own.

The Lamb is there

outside the lens flare,

behind the bass,

beneath the branding.

Waiting.

Unmoved.

Unmentioned.

Truth has been tuned

to a lower frequency,

made palatable,

made portable.

We no longer tremble

we rate the service.

The Spirit does not descend

on the schedule.

It waits

in the stillness we deleted.

It hovers

over dust we swept away

to make room

for production.

And so we leave full

but not fed.

Moved

but not changed.

A room of echoes

where the sound once was.