Feel of a Cathedral

It has the feel of a cathedral,
White washed walls. Ceiling open to the sky.
The sun streams in
and in place of the altar an old boiler,
center of the factory, long fallen
into disuse.

Outside, the wind blows. Rustles the leaves.
A soft fugue playing in memory
of what once was.

It is your mind working of course.
This was never a place of worship.
There was no sanctuary here.
Noise and old oil and smoke.
In the days when this room was alive
the roof would have held in the smell of smoke
and it would have been dark,
a place closer to hell, or at least purgatory.
You would not hear the leaves.

But this is what happens to you.
Given enough time and distance,
everything turns into a place of worship and wonder.
even if it has to die to to become.

About this poem

I tend to romanticize…. everything. I tend to see God at work in everything. Even ruins. I am not saying it is a good trait. it just is. I will say this – it makes it easier to love when all evidence tells me love is not the appropriate emotion.

Maybe I was cut out to be a preacher after all Or a madman.

The photograph was taken in an old abondoned factory just outside Shusan, New York.

Tom