![]() Love even lives in an empty Sanctuary, shoe soles echo through heating vents older than Jerusalem. Constantly moving, the air embraced the already sticky pews riddled with foreign fingerprints pressing for prayer. A welcome pamphlet stuck out the pew number askew to the left as if curious or pointing. The whole building seemed to travel cyclically, from the optical illusion of eternity in the ceiling all the way down to the powerful pillars that traveled back up through the organ pipes, resembling a giant baby's first recorder. Not a sound in earshot but for the prayer pillows possibly knocked while taking a seat. They were just wide enough for a knee and a tear, they hung on a hook at the ready, like a coat that finally can rest when you get home and turn on the light. Yet how can illumination have diction? As if light bulbs didn't exist and stained glass had a wattage, the windows burst with colors not found in science or pigment; the story walked on walls to the pulpit and rested at the top in a column of three in gold. I don't know exactly why I cried. Maybe it was because a sanctuary is never truly empty.
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Tayllor JohnsonThis is my reality as I see it in stanzas as I study Psychology, English, and French in Scotland. Archives
May 2014
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