Wednesday, March 5, 2014

From Volume 34: A poem by Lisa Taylor

Lisa C. Taylor


Cathedral of Shadows



The saddest lies

are ones we tell ourselves.


Church doors

inviting the disillusioned


who imagine


answers rest

in the chisel of stone

or lead seams on cobalt blue.


Eyes follow, someone

is speaking; we decipher


the language which sounds

both familiar and unfamiliar.


Does truth speak in tongues?


Ask the windows looking out

on the shifting shoulder

of day. Each step


leading us closer

to the mirrored hall,

cathedral of shadows.


One woman lifts a bronze arm,

another has no mouth


but we hear

a psalm; her name.

We chant liturgy,

disguise ourselves with veils,

fickle light.

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