.
First, there is the silence
A different kind of quiet
No joy, no sorrow
Just silence
But - with the memory of sound
Brass cymbals
Chanting
Murmurings in unison
Of many different tongues
Choral supplications
Quiet prayers with
The clack of
Prayer wheels spinning
The flutter of
Sacred flags in mountain air
But now
In the simple silence
There is no color
Only - the memories of hues
Purple velvet garb
Multicolored icons
Crimson berettas
Saffron robes
Black vestments
All flickering in the glow
Of many candles
Lining walls or
Perched in candelabras
Of many names
With differing histories
But burnishing each tint
With a sacred golden glow
All now mired
In the ethereal space
Of no color at all
There are no faces
Of believers
Of any faith or friendship
The want of color
Has already banished
The rainbow of races
Once present in every
Imaginable sacred space
Gone as well the fabulous
Sculpted features of the
Faithful whose countenances
And representations
Graced stone and canvas
Carved and painted
The air itself
Is without identity
Incense and woodsmoke
Mingled aromas
Of sacred feasts
Are as absent as
Sound, color, and visage
And so this absence beyond
Absence collapses
Further still
Becoming singularity
Past time and knowing
And the singularity waits
Until
Called by
Some unknown
Herald
To return
To an expanding
Swift
Beyond possible
To reclaim
Light and
Sound and
Sensing and
Being and
Joy and
Love and
And the realization
Of true deity
Contained within
Each individual
Wrapped
With humility
Each entitled
To
A throne
Until around
The edges
Of this
Most fortunate
Recreation
Creeps
The cautious
Hopeful tapping
Of realized prayer
.
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