Heels scuffing soft
channels in the stone,
marble worn through
the iron-wood doorway,
vestibule to inner sanctum.
Shadowed pews, cold
and hard, angled
upright a thousand years,
now a museum for tourists
to witness old believers,
we watch, sitting in the back rows,
pretending to be alone,
that we are gods,
ignoring the emptiness
that followed us in.
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