i worship an empty god
who answers no prayers.
a mono-disciple tapered
to heavenly threads without
ever bearing wings of my own,
i have no convictions except
the idle ones he tethers me with:
our shrine is gold and red.
(sometimes i think it is pretty.)
i will follow him with blind eyes,
for there is nothing more sweet
than to be loved for merely existing
and reciting his gospel to the ground.
i grow under his sunlight.
he waters me as he pleases,
but my petals will never be
the colors of the church flowers
from his childhood,
(he doesn't realize they are fable.)
my mind will never be his steeple.
Nazareth needs repairing, but
scripture ordains i cannot bear
the burden of fixing something so bloodied and broken.
i will bleed red wine for him,
i have no doubt he will finish
the glass.
it stains the page. i smile,
yellowed crumpling page.
i write the next verse, in pencil,
heeding my perpetual mistake:
i am immeasurably incorrect,
and no one needs repentance but
the sinner, who is I tonight,
and all nights.
i close the
book. i lay down.
Nazareth
is dark.
so i pray my
bedtime prayer,
that i wish
my god wakes up
with a clearer mind
and a learned heart
tomorrow.
(a fool is a follower,
a fool is the man who
absolves the snake for the sin
and punishes Himself
for not seeing clearer.)
it was easier when god was the only problem
