Abbot Suger dreamt heaven was in the light, yet Chartres escapes me. © Hayden Tyler Church
those black bars going, stopping, the trees’ top’s nearly above the closing gate
I feel spikey, a Gothic church's pinnacles pointing toward high.
Tabula rasa (n., ta·bu·la ra·sa) mind wiped clean, lacking nature seeking for nurture
Today, I take on the monumental task of waiving the ego.
a chasm yet full: break do walls of white noise and fingernails on brick
Where I once stood, yes, I saw that lone structure, yes, the blackness of true.