The cathedral was barred from the inside. Posters hung, peeling from the doors. The magnificent spire on the roof of the entryway was scratched, and needed fixing. The doors were marred and worn. I stood at the entrance of the cathedral, wondering why it was closed. The windows were smudged. The grass in the yard was interspersed with weeds, and the stained glass windows were cracked. But here I stood, staring, wondering why it was closed. It was a cold night in November, as all nights are in November. The streets were barren. The town was a ghost town. But I looked at the church with a judging glare, and I was saddened by what I saw. The stones were worn, the railing sagging, the stairs were fallen, and the trees were dying. But here I wondered what was wrong. I wondered why the church had closed, I wondered where it had gone. Through all of my youth it had stood, proud and tall, now just a shadow of times long gone. The clock’s hand was now at twelve. But I wondered why it had left. Here I wondered why it had left. The angels were weeping in their timeless sorrow, the gargoyles glared into the streets, at the infinite injustice that had wrought upon them. But here I wondered why it slept. The pillars supporting the spires of fidelity, those signs of morality, those gates of ethicality. That church which had promised shelter in days of old, that church which now had gone. I wondered why the church was closed. Here I stood pondering that question. Why was the church closed. I shrugged, getting the spiritual question out of my head and walked back home with a full moon guiding my way.