The stained glass cracked above my head

The stained glass cracked above my head,

bent light spilled uneven on empty pews—

the hymn faltered, notes sharp and threadbare,

as if the prayers themselves had turned brittle.

I sat in the third pew, fingers tracing

a fissure splitting blue from crimson, holy now broken.

The choir’s voices scraped the walls like dry leaves,

no warmth in the rooms once filled with breath.

Outside, a cold rain tapped the slate roof,

a steady fracture of sound that matched the glass.

I left with the shadow of shattered colors behind me,

carrying silence louder than any sermon.