Incense rises,
not always as prayer,
but as habit.
Lips move in practiced rhythm,
echoing words
long emptied
of meaning.

The veil is beautiful.
Gold thread,sacred texts,
bells that chime
on cue.
But beauty can hide
as much as it reveals.

Behind the veil,
there is silence.
Not the hush of reverence,
but a question
too dangerous
to ask aloud:
What if He is not there?

The hands still fold.
The bodies still kneel.
But somewhere,
a soul paces restlessly,
aching not for rules,
but for presence.

God,
not as lawgiver,
but as fire.
Not as doctrine,
but as touch-
unmistakable,
alive.

Behind the veil,
truth waits.
Unwritten.
Untamed.
And still,
it calls.