No one knows better than me
that the sleeve, where I wear my heart,
it dirtied with the ashes
of the bridges I've burned.
And it's clear from the construction signs
that I need to board up
these drafty revolving doors.
I can see the rain
is my lady luck
doing her damnedest to keep me
out of the confessional booth.
I was never good with mesh screens
and pulpits, altering the way God's voice sounds,
even when my own has forgotten to pray for
what seems like forever, now.
It seems there is no accounting for taste
when faith leaves this taste in my mouth.
I guess someone forgot to tell me
that you're supposed to hold your breath
when they baptize you.
I search now for the warning signs,
with my eyes looking to the skies for answers.
I swear I heard the clouds whisper, "I Love You Son,
and change is coming, just check your pockets
for loose disdain; we'll exchange it for the rain,
so that you can confess again.