I walked into our chapel
shoulders back,
head high,
dignified.
No Catholic shame
forced my eyes
to the mosaic aisle
Trodden Over
by my Sandaled feet,
It was a feast day,
praising God
with our laughter
and shared
beneficence.
We joined
in joyful prayer,
receiving each other's
sacrament
with the reverence
of saints
but just as I sang
the psalms the loudest
there came
an unholy silence,
Believing I was being
tempted,
I fell to my knees,
contemplated
your wonder
waiting for your return
to your
prodigal lover;
squandering our
sacred time,
not counting the blessings of
our moments of grace.
I hung upon
my silent cross,
weeping into my
wine-soaked rag
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani
Descending into
Despair,
Waiting for
an Easter
that I swore
had been prophesized,
Even upon your
high holy
return,
you seemed resurrected,
and yet I not saved.
I felt like Moses
on his day of death
beholding
the promised land
covenanted by
souls
and yet
remaining in
this desert
thirsty for
the wellspring
that seemed to be sitting
behind your eyes,
the water that would
quench
my forever thirst.
Despite the ache
in my dried mouth,
I'd find
the will
to stand upon my feet,
tired of relying on
a charitable heart's
sympathies
as my means of
living.
But I found
that I was
praying for
too much
from you
and I fell upon
my knees again,
wondering if
humility is meant
to leave you feeling
this broken.
And so begins the litany
of sacrifices
wondering
if you are my
love made flesh
why it is I who is
scourged,
stripped of dignity,
nailed to a cross
that I had brought here
myself
Mumbling words out
to a silent heart
that I know
hears me.
Thinking that surely
our death
will meet me soon.
But by
the clever grace of
the devil
I continue,
finding life
that should have
diminished
at two o' clock.
Is Hannukah
not
supposed to be
a celebration?
Because while burning
in this modest
Menorah lifestyle,
sacred
and
devout.
I find faith
in you
and have been shepherded
to no redemption,
but only the
salty pillars
of one who trusts
in gods
created by another God.
And upon this realization,
I rush to confession,
knowing my worship
of false idols
is not over.
As I remember
our love
as beautiful
and mighty,
I'm forced
also to remember
that
Lucifer, too,
fell when things were at
perfection.
Try as I might,
I must turn my face away,
with the hope
that something
greater
truly does await
for one
who loved paradise,
body and soul,
with the finality
of resurrection.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
I walked into our chapel
shoulders back,
head high,
dignified.
No Catholic shame
forced my eyes
to the mosaic aisle
Trodden Over
by my Sandaled feet,
It was a feast day,
praising God
with our laughter
and shared
beneficence.
We joined
in joyful prayer,
receiving each other's
sacrament
with the reverence
of saints
but just as I sang
the psalms the loudest
there came
an unholy silence,
Believing I was being
tempted,
I fell to my knees,
contemplated
your wonder
waiting for your return
to your
prodigal lover;
squandering our
sacred time,
not counting the blessings of
our moments of grace.
I hung upon
my silent cross,
weeping into my
wine-soaked rag
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani
Descending into
Despair,
Waiting for
an Easter
that I swore
had been prophesized,
Even upon your
high holy
return,
you seemed resurrected,
and yet I not saved.
I felt like Moses
on his day of death
beholding
the promised land
covenanted by
souls
and yet
remaining in
this desert
thirsty for
the wellspring
that seemed to be sitting
behind your eyes,
the water that would
quench
my forever thirst.
Despite the ache
in my dried mouth,
I'd find
the will
to stand upon my feet,
tired of relying on
a charitable heart's
sympathies
as my means of
living.
But I found
that I was
praying for
too much
from you
and I fell upon
my knees again,
wondering if
humility is meant
to leave you feeling
this broken.
And so begins the litany
of sacrifices
wondering
if you are my
love made flesh
why it is I who is
scourged,
stripped of dignity,
nailed to a cross
that I had brought here
myself
Mumbling words out
to a silent heart
that I know
hears me.
Thinking that surely
our death
will meet me soon.
But by
the clever grace of
the devil
I continue,
finding life
that should have
diminished
at two o' clock.
Is Hannukah
not
supposed to be
a celebration?
Because while burning
in this modest
Menorah lifestyle,
sacred
and
devout.
I find faith
in you
and have been shepherded
to no redemption,
but only the
salty pillars
of one who trusts
in gods
created by another God.
And upon this realization,
I rush to confession,
knowing my worship
of false idols
is not over.
As I remember
our love
as beautiful
and mighty,
I'm forced
also to remember
that
Lucifer, too,
fell when things were at
perfection.
Try as I might,
I must turn my face away,
with the hope
that something
greater
truly does await
for one
who loved paradise,
body and soul,
with the finality
of resurrection.
