On Cleaning The Temple
As I ambled the way lined with a thousand weeping statues, their tears made stream of path. The neverlight had already begun. The darkness drowned. Temple Sight.
"You are to return to return to the temple alone. Here is the list of your doing," spake the faceless one at my arrival.
It didn't feel safe. His words rang out like hammer, nail, coffin.
"Guess I'll go then..."
Walking the way, unwrit scriptoria flashed forth in the array: Blessed be the hope for morning.
Well, we'd see then. I'd been given two pages so that I might keep on track. Like I needed it. Who dons not the cloak of surreptitious confidence? Look, I was to clean the temple. A solitary act. Yet I could not escape the inescapable dread of that distant sort of togetherness, that claustrohesion, that —
Too-early whistles cut through the fearing, clearing step. Clearing breath. Death alighted on a new branch maybe. No where yet.
"Tremble bring me, all my steps..."
No matter the fear
No matter the lack
No matter the feel
No matter the fact
So much, so very
In the dark, agreement
Tasted like iron
On the tongue time wrung out,
I ran runs. I knotted nots. I walked.
I didn't know then, but solitude had always been false-marked, for in the wallless halls ever-lurked an overwhelming Presence.
Behind me,
Walls crumbled before Him.
Ahead,
TO WALK WHERE YE HATH WEPT