Clasp your hands.
Bow your head
and pretend it's your choice,
and not the weight of the sky
crushing you in its need
to kiss the earth.

I pray that I won't hurt you,
even as I know
I ask the impossible.
But that, I suppose, is prayer;
dusty lips and hollow bones
and a fervent need
for dreaming,
hoping against all odds
and asking for changes
when faith says it's all
already written.

(It's the most beautiful paradox.)