A poem

 The stones in the rotunda are tiles. 

The archway are made of plaster.

The rounded arches look like a mosque or temple.

The ceiling reaches into the round space.

It is filled with empty air up there.

It looks like a place of worship.

I cry to God through Isaiah, 

"Holy, Holy is the Lord!"

To have this spirit to hold onto. 

The ground is covered and cold.

We are inside the sacred looking space.

The words spoken there are both Holy and dismissive.

God speaks from his book. 

Men speak from theirs.

We have nowhere to turn, father.

No one is left to turn to.

"We are not Gooooood" they shout.

God is on the floor. Cold.