The Dark Catholic walks without procession,
without announcement,
without applause.
She does not seek the stage.
She does not call herself a guide.
She walks because something in her knows
that the Light must be there too —
even here.
Especially here.
She does not fear the ruins.
She does not flinch at silence.
She has walked too long with sorrow
to mistake it for abandonment.
She does not convert.
She does not convince.
She simply walks —
and if someone finds her flame and follows,
let it be because God led them,
not because she called.
The Dark Catholic is not lost.
She is faithful in a forgotten tongue.
She kneels in places others avoid.
She lights candles where the wind has been unkind.
She believes in resurrection,
but never skips the tomb.
Her cathedral is not built by hands,
but in the space between ache and hope,
stone and shadow,
cross and crown.
She walks.
And that is enough