I stepped inside
where the wind
had no voice.

The air
tasted of ash.
No hymns
on the walls.
No scent
of old incense
only grime,
and the slow drip
of what once was belief.

There was a chair
facing the corner,
like someone
left it
in shame.
No one sat there.
But something did.

My hands
they shook
but not from fear.
From memory.
From the body
remembering
how to beg.

No altar.
No flame.
Just frost
in the throat
of the room.

I pressed
my ear
to the floor
heard nothing
but the hum
of absence,
ravenous
and kind.

No voice came.
No thunder.
No revelation.
Only the soft sound
of God
never being here
at all.

Then I wonder why ?