For what river truly cries — when it drowns in its own tears?
What walls speak for themselves, too busy listening to your
gossip to hold any secret of their own.
What gospel is worth quoting, when you recite only the lines
you prefer, picking faith like fruit, discarding the bitter parts?
Versions of reason, disgusted, and all collected in an old jar
sunk to the bottom of a restless sea — for if a river weeps too
long, it swells beyond itself, becoming another ocean too vast
to contain.
Walls that bend to every word you say will crumble under a
single honest breath, and quietly falling like forgotten prayers,
For when scripture just becomes a mere script; should I even
wonder why so many of us perform the cold act of believing
without believing at all — we're all so good at acting.