I passed the cathedral and thought of the booth

I passed the cathedral and thought of the booth,

that small dark room where you tell the truth

to a silhouette behind a latticed screen—

a stranger who's heard worse than what you mean.

What would I say if I sat in there?

Would the words come arranged or in despair?

Would my voice sound clean or would it shake

while I confess the things I fake?

The screen would hold me safe, they say,

that thin wall of wood to keep me at bay

from his face, from judgment, from being known—

I could confess everything, alone.

But I didn't go in. I walked right past.

The cathedral's getting smaller fast.

I'm still carrying the words I didn't say,

still thinking about that booth every day.