Prayer wielding purpose

This cathedral is a narrow lane that 
Crouches in the backstreets
Hunched inside a late medieval town.

Gray ballustrades and columns loom,
Whistling sunlight dimples in the 
Rainbow glass stained windows,
Etched with finger-pointing comment,
Chiding morals into place.

Side view, we pray in shadows but our voices
Bleed aloft, resisting gravity they trickle up
To balconies and pigeon nests and scratches on the walls.

Bold energy from scarlet whispers 
Bubbles, clots, and rains upon our
Dying dipped bloom heads,
The echo shattered by the cloying close
Perception of a spirit on the run.

This constellate, this consummate cathedral
Is a geode it's the mother lode of gilded misdirection
It's a lie.

The sky above our middle ages alley
Is a ceiling, weight in marble, wait for grace fall
Fall in place.

Our voices 
(in their supplicating)
suffocate intent.