Sanctuary of Shadows

We cloak ourselves in silk and wool,  

fasten the mask with polished hands.  

Rouged cheeks, slicked-back strands—  

we step into the temple of light.  

Through the doors, a river of voices,  

a chorus of hands pressed in greeting.  

We take our seats in hallowed rows,  

our voices rise, hymns on the wind.  

Alleluia echoes through stained glass,  

knees kiss the altar, lips murmur prayers.  

The preacher, a storm in the pulpit,  

rains sweat with every word.  

The choir ignites, a fire of song,  

we whisper *Amen* and scatter home.  

But beneath the robes, the sorrow lingers.  

The people remain—cracked vessels,  

aching, hardened, untouched by grace.  

They do not love, not even themselves.  

Their wounds do not close, their burdens do not lift.  

Then the veil was torn from my eyes.  

I saw the ruin within my own soul.  

A heart brittle, a mind clenched tight,  

a pride that crowned me falsely whole.  

And when love first touched me,  

it split me open, gentle as dawn.  

I saw myself in every stranger,  

and for the first time—I loved.  

So when Sunday called again,  

I dressed in more than fabric.  

I stood at the door, no longer hidden,  

watching the river flow inside.  

The people still sang, hands still clapped,  

the preacher thundered, the choir swelled.  

We all said *Amen* and returned to our worlds.  

Yet still, the people suffer.  

Their hearts remain broken, their minds remain stone.  

The sanctuary sings, but the healing never comes.