By now I know you're hungry
for your god,
and not the painted porcelain face
hanging on the cross
above your doorframe.

You want more now that you're
struggling,
a voice that you have conjured
in the mind you know
he gave you,

an image blended from
your idols,
arms you once learned love in,
eyes you never from which
could part.

But that's the best you'll get,
and a shame
no one told you sooner.
An idea of faith or
more like
a dream of salvation.

Starved.