The Test in Testimony

Lit the inside of the sanctuary on fire,

words couldn't manage to fill it with enough warmth. 

This final drought of passion had sent the chill forth. 

Traced my hands across the edge of the seats-first century, mahogany. 

Just cold blocks of wood that wouldn't receive me. 

Not on my knees or standing upright, dully staring at a pulpit with a glaze over my eyes. 

A hollowed-out man made the truth empty again,

as he had been gifted this holy stance. 

His sole purpose- to question your worthiness. 

"And what, my dear, of your lack of service?"

Couldn't cleanse my soul in a building,

not even after the choir's songs were sung. 

What a pretty string of sentences, 

but the hands hadn't followed the tongues. 

And all the blank faces glancing forward

hadn't moved genuinely in that direction. 

Though I'm sure if you asked, they had every intention. 

It was as I watched the flames rise up to the ceiling-

old Cappella Magma slowly melting. 

Dissolving to the sound of Marian hymns and the Nicene Creed. 

Ah, yes only then did I feel set free,

igniting my own testimony. 

Escaping through halls that never could comfort or calm,

not with any amount of confession or psalm. 

I stumbled across god in the city, reading the morning's newspaper. 

His eyes weren't as described in the sermon. 

When he spoke to me this time, 

I actually heard him. 

His dialogue wasn't cold or rehearsed. 

Hell, he didn't require me to recite a single verse. 

The man didn't even blink when I cursed, 

just cracked a slight knowing smile. 

Told me he hadn't heard from me in a while. 

And we shared a croissant,

a conversation and exchange of thought. 

I recalled the peeling paint on the walls, 

as the fire revealed its dirty facade. 

Reminded of the way it felt

to meditate in heaven but only see hell. 

But I had found the god I sought. 

In the city, ending a tireless search. 

The day the streets became my church.