I've been seeking truth in several areas regarding the Lord and His love as of late. I've felt pretty cushioned by the Holy Spirit this last month, like I have pillows on all sides of me. There's really no other place I want to be right now. I know this poem is loosely tethered, but my heart is very much in this place. Trying to aim for truth. If you're going to walk on the white side of the curb, by the gutter, and search for deader plants behind the sewer grates, slowly, then I will wait. I guess. I halted in this frothy glasshouse, damp before it was silent, but still deadening in the weight of its sliding sheets of pale or thin light. I sat between the vines to be in the state of the glorified libraries and the tilting cathedrals with their fallen doors, the basilicas that have torn down their own wallpapers and repainted curious images of antiseptic gods on insubstantial sanctums. We could always see through the fake beams the modern chaplains innately rooted like boorish trees that snake through the Amazon. Looking up the curved, impressionistic dome toward the keynote core that leveled the force of the angels, you told me of how it used to be, how it really is - deep - rumbling down through the stratums of the ocean and latching on to both sides of the continent (and we are covered still). It is an exquisite following. The smell of the hickory pew and melted candlesticks is what I remember the least.