actuallydáel

a cathedral,

i. which looms over you like the body of God looms over His followers, menacing, haunting.

ii. a fleeting feeling that weighs as if made of lead over your shoulders, just before you enter.

iii. and on the door, an engraving: “abandon all hope, ye who enter here”, and on your heart, a fire, as weak as your legs when you walk.

iv. and in your bag, no flashlight, for you'd see things you'd rather not. a bottle of water, possibly holier than whatever lies inside the cathedral.

v. and the door creaks when you open it, and your soul sinks when you walk through it, and the light of twilight through the stained glass that illuminates your steps as long as it can.

vi. you will not be saved, nobody will because redemption was never for you, or for anyone who begs or prays, because the night comes for all.

vii. so you place your belongings on the furthest pew from the altar, to make sure they stay as far from God as they could possibly be.

viii. so you walk down the hall and towards that altar you saw. on it, a Bible, but is as empty as your own heart.

ix. you turn all the pages, looking for the one verse that could possibly pardon you and cleanse you from all Sin.

x. but no, it is empty, blank, there are no words and even if there were, they would mean nothing to you because you are invisible to His eyes.

xi. also on the altar, a rosary. no matter how many times you used them you decide not to this time, but you pocket it anyway.

xii. you used to be a praying person, and every night, before going to bed you'd ask for salvation, but nobody ever came.

xiii. you look up from the altar to find a wooden cross, hanging, reigning over the place, and His eyes are locked on yours.

xiv. you look away in shame and you don't know why. you feel the weight in you, like a shot to the heart.

xv. oh, you used to be a believer but the chagrin grew on you like moss over a rock, and like words over your heart.

xvi. your feet take you somewhere, to the confession booth, in blackish wood. and you go to open its door but the handle burns your hand.

xvii. you start to wonder if you're damned, perhaps even cursed, what that would explain. maybe that is the reason you've never been good at expressing your feelings.

xviii. maybe every time you wanted to open up to someone, open the door, you burned your hand with the handle, so your tears could heal it for you.

xix. and so you walk the sides of the cathedral, looking for anything that could be of interest, and a few steps over you find a lectern, and a hymnal rests on it, open for you.

xx. you resist the temptation to sing them, because you know all of them, and you know all the times you've sung them in your head.

xxi. but once you actually read what's written on its pages, you're not surprised to find, that none of them are in your language.

xxii. “Ecclesiastical Latin”, you whisper, as you try to remember those lessons that you took at school, because you thought they would come in handy sometime.

xxiii. and to your left, the cross that you'd have sworn you saw hanging somewhere else, but certainly not beside you.

xxiv. and your head throws you back, to the times your parents snuck up on you, and judged you for not being their favourite. you were their only child.

xxv. and you keep following the walls of the cathedral, looking for something, somewhere that will somehow fill your heart.

xxvi. you are not but an empty void waiting to be filled with His words only so they can disappear yet again like a never-ending well.

xxvii. and when you're on its right wing you find a pile of what used to be holy, holy water, eternal remedy. there is none of it left.

xxviii. but you're sure that if it weren't, you would have sunk your hand in it and the water would have evaporated. it always does that.

xxix. you're sure that if it weren't it would not be holy anymore. whatever lives in this place could not possibly be holy.

xxx. and as you explore the last bits, as you walk past all the sculptures of virgins weeping and angels falling, past the paintings of forbidden forms

xxxi. you encounter a door, frame of stone, but black as the shadows of demons, black as the shadows of the broken. black as the color of your hair.

xxxii. and it is unlocked, and its handle does not burn when you touch it, maybe because whatever is behind it is made out of the same dust you are.

xxxiii. and of course, you open it, like an adventurer looking for treasure, but you don't like adventure, and you don't like the treasure either.

xxxiv. and upon you, stairs that guide you downwards, and if the inscription on the door wasn't enough it resonates in your head again:

xxxv. “abandon all hope, ye who enter here”, and you complete it: “for it was always lost and so i will be.”

xxxvi. and you take your first step, and your foot stomps on the stone, and you take your second step, and dispose yourself of your will.

xxxvii. and you keep taking steps, as many as tears roll down your eyes, and suddenly you understand what the lamenting figures felt like.

xxxviii. and the tears almost freeze as they go down your face. and you can see your own breath as you walk down the steps.

xxxix. and you reach the last of steps, and you give yourself a moment to process what is going through your head. you're not sure they're your thoughts.

xl. you ask yourself if you always had horns. you're not really sure but when you touch them, they're actually not there, at all. must have been the breeze.

xli. upon you, a corridor, illuminated with the weakest light of ageless torches, a reddish light. you wonder who lit them up.

xlii. you keep on going, hoping you will find what you came for, even if you are not actually sure what that is, but whatever it is, it must be here.

xliii. and you keep on walking, hoping you will not die here tonight, but your knees feel heavy, and you could really use some blood.

xliv. and just as you find another door, standing right in front of you, the first of bells rang, solemn, resonating in your heart.

xlv. and on the door, the cross, with the same eyes that stared at you piercing deep into your soul. you feel the judgement of God.

xlvi. and when you go to touch the cross, it slips from your hand, and when you look at the ground, it didn't make a sound, it wasn't ever there.

xlvii. and when you go to open the door, its handle invites you to hold it, and hold it as tight as you can. you resist the temptation.

xlviii. and when you see what's inside, the second of bell rings. you're not even sure how many will ring, but something inside you tells you it must be twelve.

xlix. inside, a tombstone. behind it, an altar. beside it, a grail. on the other, the Cross.

l. and you walk towards the tombstone, as you hear the third of bells, and you kneel to look at what's on it, only to find it is your own name.

li. so you walk towards the altar and find another bible, conveniently open right for you, and on it, you start reading.

lii. “holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was, is, and is to come.” you already knew this verse.

liii. and you read it til it hurt. you have read it til it became your heart, the one that's now a hole in your chest. revelations, four-eight, you think to yourself.

liv. and with it, the fourth of bells, and in the distance, very faintly but at the same time, right in your ears, you begin to hear them speak.

lv. “holy, holy, holy” they chant. and they are in front of you, they are behind you, they are inside you.

lvi. you ask yourself whether you've ever had wings before, but you insist that it could only be your imagination. you've never had wings, have you?

lvii. and an organ starts playing, right at the core of your heart, resonating in its own walls, and flowing through every single vein.

lviii. and you know this chant, and you know this song, and you are about to join the choir, before you start yourself, and kneel again.

lix. “forgive me, father, for i have sinned, for what i am about to do, and what you'll do to me”, you whisper.

lx. fifth of bells, and it breaks your heart. the chanting gets louder, and so does the organ. you beg for it to stop.

lxi. sixth of bells, and it breaks your mind. the chanting is in your mouth, and the organ in your kind. you scream for it to stop.

lxii. seventh of bells, and it makes you run, back through the hallway, as fast as you can, but it's longer than how it was before.

lxiii. eighth of bells, and you grow tired, from this never-ending hall, the chanting, and the song. you beg for God to stop.

lxiv. ninth of bells, and it breaks your breath. you finally find the stairs, you walk them as fast as you can, making sure not to misstep.

lxv. tenth of bells, and it breaks your love. you desperately run to get your things, but you can't help but notice the person praying at the altar.

lxvi. oh, you know your time is out, but you really want to stay, and He knows this, so he approaches you, cup of wine in hand.

lxvii. eleventh of bells, and it breaks your beliefs. you gather up all your things, and try to get away from here. the organ is the loudest thing you've ever heard before.

lxviii. and just as you walk out the door, you hear the twelfth bell, but it can't reach you anymore for you are out of His hand.

lxix. and you keep running away, just as fast as you can. only so that when you turn around, there is nothing but a blank.

lxx. so you realize, how bad you wound up, and you reach in your body, and found out they took your heart. they're gone. they got what they wanted.

lxxi. you fall to the ground, and let the night consume you. oh, you used to be a believer, but remembered He broke you inside.

#poetry #other