I work at night.
My eyes lighted by the merest glimmers
from dark recessed memory.
There I can caress my thoughts;
warming them within cupped palms
pressed against the temples, as in prayer.
My church, however, left me long ago,
refusing to believe in me.
The feeling was mutual.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
I work at night.
My eyes lighted by the merest glimmers
from dark recessed memory.
There I can caress my thoughts;
warming them within cupped palms
pressed against the temples, as in prayer.
My church, however, left me long ago,
refusing to believe in me.
The feeling was mutual.
Request permission to use this poem