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