in dim light and deep silence
we first confront, then struggle to know,
to revere the void
Soft light from a shaded skylight
soaks into walls of dark canvas
all seemingly flat and dull
but full – teeming full – of absence
of no things
of nothing-ness
the same nothingness that birthed us
and will again shroud us
Here in this softly lit octagon – this holiest of chapels –
we are weightless: unfettered from dusty tomes
self-declared to be sacred; free, for a moment,
of ancient credos, bloodied dogma,
priests and wizards, gods and saints
We in this secular chapel are free
to be silent: spirits in temporal form
learning to not fear – but rather love – the abyss
as father, mother
Yet the void is fearsome: beneath these canvas walls
the notion of spirit persists. So we reason: if spirit is myth,
then nothing abides and we need fear no thing;
if spirit not be myth, but rather live on beyond these,
our shells, we will abide – if spirit not be myth
and love be deathless