These are halls where souls
go to die. Where agony
parlays grief and fluorescent
beams shock minds into
submission. Where clamoring
“it is finished” reverberates
against concrete walls and
rings hollow like tin. Where
remnants of affairs linger like
dust. Where purity dissolves
on pyres and absolution
liberates deceit.

These are halls that bury their
buildings. Where flushwork
falls next to altars under
layers of earth. Where a
cracked porcelain Mary
rests on a mahogany cross,
bereft of the body that left
her. Where filth of confession
does not wash away in rain.
Where lies on lips tempt like
lust. Where guilt gleans blood
in parted wakes.

These are halls where
gypsum covers limestone.
Where acrylic colors hide
hand-forged rock. Where
once-piped flues and reeds
yield majesty for silence.
Where dovecotes inter the
vaults that house them.
Where gardens spring from
sin forgiven, tilled
in spinal rows.

These are halls for centuries
aged – supine, fatigued –
flagrant in judgment for
the damned and saved.


Posted by Jason Ramsey

Christian. Dad to five, including two sets of twins. Husband to favorite person. Guy behind ALTARWORK and Amity Coalition. Interests: mental health advocacy, social equality, religious freedom. Writing featured at Patheos, Venn Magazine, The Bees Are Dead, The Mudroom, My Ink Dance, ALTARWORK, and more. Leading by leaps of faith and grace. Exposing goodness every day.

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