I recognize my saints.
They grow betwixt the cracks in the concrete,
whispering me awake from among the refuse.

I see my gods.
Worshiping from a sleeping bag wedged behind a dumpster,
they seep through the mortar between the bricks.

I cast out my demons.
They crawl in the seam between my ears,
exposing my fears knelt down at a church pew.

(I wait patiently for that one day when some holy water will wash this world away).

I hear my priest beckon.
Trip down to the river,
come and play come and play.

I feel my idols.
Plastered on the walls,
watching me laugh with unmurmured eyes.  

I hear my heroes.
Singing from broken speakers,
hear them getting sick hear them being healed.

I recognize my saints.
They grow strong and resilient from cracked concrete,
whispering me awake from among the sleep.