The truth has a quiet ring
A tenor in the body, soft and tender, never overpowering
Patient, it waits for the other notes to finish clamoring, and then rings gracefully true several decibels below the rest of the noise
With authority but never force
It’s possible to pretend I didn’t hear it, but then the tenor changes
No longer gentle and pure, the note of truth feels like a silent collapse
Warped wood, vacant wind, a garden neglected, a house condemned
I’ve lived there before, made a home for myself in those abandoned corridors
But you
You are a cathedral
Each archway, each tower, erected from devotion
I would come every day to hear the bells ring
To humble myself at this altar and lay my fears upon it in prayer
To be awed into grace by this noble gesture of beauty that you are
And find my truth here
Where the sound of truth is unmistakable