It shouldn’t be here, a bloated boil, all grey and sore on the skin of the city eclipsing the day with its dome, whose mould makes mountains— choking the spirit with the stench of corruption. I can picture it in its older days: baroque bars that held the dome up as though strutting the place in all its golden glory. What does it hold now, this hallowed hall? The signs of its dead occupiers defaced, years ago, give no clue as to what or who belongs here. Stretched around its skin, a tattooed band: Hallelujah, I Am The Resurrection. Hallelujah, I Am The Resurrection Hallelujah, I Am The Resurrection the unrhythmic tattoo of the words spill from the wall and into my mind. I approach the doors, and feel the wood pucker underneath my skin, making mothballs fly as I tore them wide violating the space as the hinges scream clanging tight behind me— The catch of light been and gone. I have penetrated the silence, my footfalls echo—hollow— while windowless walls quiver in the perpetual night. But when my eyes adjust, I have the desperate wish that I stayed blind. Such sordid sight—the tales are true! The Stone Vignettes of Religious Agony.
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© Thomas Gallimore Barker, 2021
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