My Cathedral

Stardust

0426.2025

I couldn’t bind my heart to the words of books

that were written by hands afraid of the dark.

Kneeling before the ghosts of men—then trembling—seemed cowardly, a lie.

I have read the verses and heard their promises,

counted the cracks, and felt the fissure in my heart swell beneath their lies—

I wandered the ruins of their gardens and couldn’t sow roots.

It seems civilizations weathered the destruction of their tales,

and some of their children found not a single seed where truth could grow—

I couldn’t.

When I was a child,

I searched the night skies for answers—

fell into its maw and became a seeker.

Not a throne, not a punishment,

not a heavenly reward was sought for—

but a voice made of river, ocean, starlight, and stone—

the proof that everything, and I, are not alone—

arrived on the world’s wind and had my ear.

So I fasted with the hunger of saints,

wanted to touch upon their wisdom,

and found holiness is not a cage,

but a current running through

the veins of the Earth itself.

The stars and I—made of the same ash.

The animals and I—carved from the same clay that breathes.

The oceans, the dirt, the salt on my skin—

these are the scriptures I listen to.

There is this that I know of,

and it is the pulse inside all living things—

the cry of connection,

the ache of belonging—

the wild song of broken planets becoming whole.

It is the womb of the universe

that birthed us into being.

I do not need a page to prove it.

The Earth is my book.

m.c.f.