Fevered dissonance in the deepest, muddiest pit.
Religion peeks its head from above as I dig my nails into wet, soiled walls,
Scratching for escape from the uninvited inhabitants of my mind.
Breathing in dust,
Exhaling the soul--
Faith shines a dim light beyond the black blanket of night,
Where rings of smoke break away,
From red lips that decorate demon sanctuary,
Forming halos above my head.

But religion is just a thought,
Just like thoughts of my childhood.
Just like you and I racing through our neighborhood pool--
Filling our lungs with air,
Before touching the concrete floor with raisin fingertips,
Holding our bodies down,
Until the urge for breath is unbearable.

Spiritual security--
Unreachable, as the foul tenants beneath my skull,
Howl, claw, and chew at the corners of my cotex--
Growling in desire for written immortality.
Where is religion and its promises of everlasting life and paradise,
When fiendish ventriloquists fist-**** orifices,
Controlling my limbs?
Where is God when fingers clinch the pen?
Where is Heaven, when the ballpoint digs through paper,
Like a shovel digging a grave?
Who hears my prayers, when the demons pull thoughts from dark corners--
The way they pulled your naked, lifeless body, from the bottom of the pool,
Where you lay for three days?

“No foul play expected,”
Nor closure.
“An angel,” they called you.
The only angel I’ve known
Fell on the pages of Milton’s lost paradise.
“She’s in a better place”--
The words I heard as I watched you lie in a box.
Your once luminous, black hair--
Dry, brittle, straw.
The same fingertips that rubbed my back as we tossed tasseled caps--
Partially-peeled raisins;
Skin shriveled and torn,
Never to feel again.  
“She’s in a better place,” they said,
As they lowered you beneath the surface,
Where you can never come up for air.
The deepest, muddiest, pit.

Part of me was lowered with you--
Drowned in holy water, tears, and smoke,
Buried under dirt and antidepressants.
Faith turned its head as worms fed on my shriveled heart,
Torn, beside your suppressed memory.
My demons, though--
Grind my skeletons to fertilize the soil,
Guide the pen,
Dig past the surface,
Until a flower peeks from beyond the darkness of the pit.