Sophia at the Hollow Altar

by Al Konda

I didn’t write this poem to explain Sophia.

I wrote it to stand with her.

There are places we go when words fail us — places built not to answer, but to listen. The hollow altar is one of those places. Not empty. Not abandoned. Just wide enough to let grief pass through without being owned.

Sophia does not move. She does not rescue. She does not gather the broken into a story that makes sense. She stands where vows echo longer than voices, where names arrive too heavy to keep. That limit matters. Mercy without limit becomes possession. Wisdom knows when to let go.

When the Seer comes, he is not seeking power. He comes with ash on his breath, restless hands, and the dangerous hope that silence might speak. Sophia lets him believe she is stone. Some truths arrive more safely that way. Some loves must remain quiet to be heard at all.

What she gives him is not fire he steals. It is a warmth he did not demand. A lantern shaped by restraint. That difference is everything.

This poem is not about answers.

It is about permission.

Permission to leave without betrayal.

Permission to carry darkness without claiming dominion over it.

Permission to love without turning devotion into law.

I believe some things remember us even when we stop speaking. Stone. Mountain. Silence. They keep watch without applause. They pray by remaining.

Sophia does not save the Seer.

She sends him back human.

And sometimes, that is the truest mercy there is.

Read the full poem and analysis tomorrow 28th: https://alkonda.com/2026/01/28/sophia-at-the-hollow-altar/

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite