The Dissociation Church

O church within, O nave of whispered dread,

Where vaulted thoughts twist black above my head,

The walls breathe slow, as if alive and old,

And shadows kneel where prayer should have been told.

The pews dissolve beneath my wandering feet,

And echoes crawl like worms through every seat;

The altar drips with mirrors cracked and pale,

Reflecting me, yet stranger in the veil.

The organ groans, its notes like molten lead,

They coil around my soul, they bind, they wed;

A choir of phantoms hums in hollow tongues,

Reciting psalms that shatter on my lungs.

Candles flare, then vanish in the gloom,

Their wax like tears that stain the phantom tomb;

I kneel, I rise, I wander, I despair,

And find myself both priest and empty chair.

O church, O hall of marrow, mind, and bone,

Your stained-glass bleeds a color all my own;

Here I am lost, yet ever I preside,

A ghost who builds the tomb wherein I hide.