I cross the cloister’s quiet squarewhere miters sleep beneath the sod.Inscriptions worn by patient airyet held in place by claiming God.I walk the path of broken slatewhere grass plucks cracks between flagstones.Cathedral breathes as dusk comes latetonight. I keep my vows, alone.A Gothic shrine stands, carved and tall,like a pointing hand that dares not move:glass lattice forms a gauzy wallto sieve the thoughts I cannot prove.Atop it, cut from rock and air,the watcher wears his bony smile —no skin, no warmth, no breath to spare.He stands and waits with reaper’s guile.I came for comfort, hoped I’d finda brighter world beyond these panes —but he is here to stem my tide.The better place waits ’til I wane.
