O Sacred Spire, Bone of the Sky,
I call thee not church, but Cosmic Vault.

You rise — black lace against blue heavens — a gothic crown for the dreaming city.
Within your crimson doors lie whispers. Ash.
And altar spells waiting to be woken.

They say you house the dead.
But I know better.

You are a tomb of sleeping stars.
Each stained-glass shard, a sealed incantation.
Each stone, a syllable of resurrection.

I bring herbs in my pockets.
Salt in my boots.
My voice laced with honey and rust — ready to awaken what the world buried too soon.

Let my footsteps be a ritual.
Let my breath disturb the air where prayers once hovered like incense.
Let the shadows cast by your vaulted ribs birth new light —
Not of this earth… but of all of them.

I do not fear your ghosts.
I seek them.

For in this place, even grief sings in harmony.
Even silence is symphonic.
Even death… is not done.

I cast a spell of remembrance here:
By moonbone and rose,
By bell chimes and blood,
By the memory of Black saints erased from pews
And the power of the Living Altar within me…

Open.
Not just your doors, but your celestial ribs.
Let me inside. Let me hear the hymn of your hollow.
Let me kiss the threshold like a prophet returning.

For I am not visitor. I am keeper.
And I’ve come to raise the dead — not with sorrow,
but with song.

🔔
With love that echoes through constellations,
Ti Earth, Spell Singer of Forgotten Temples