Comfortable syllables flow from the mouths of preachers
who tell us the words don't matter, only what's
etched incurably in our hearts.
But we know better
We must flee to be free from the gazes of perfectly winged eyes, standing upright next to suit jackets and pristine ties.
And the pleas offered up from our minds are never headed in the right direction, the one all the rosaries and pews point towards- we send
our message up to Heaven, taking avenues that even we can't comprehend. And no one believes because they won't spare
just one second.
They see the worth only in the hours squeezed out of organized bodies
and the tangible gifts and the pounded out work deliberately presented, but every hair stays in place and not one drop of sweat falls and they wonder why religion is not an appealing call
because they've lost the point under all of the
lipstick and lies they lather on.
It's absurd to grasp the notion that any god wants to hear from
a pack of perfect praisers,
raising their children to pray the same way they've always done.
There's no way to find your voice under all the babies crying and cries ringing and the fierce scolding of every beautiful thing.
So our prayers remain hidden, buried deep in the wind that carries them away. We pray every second of every sequestered and lonesome day. We fill up our spirit in the way we hope as we desperately pull on our clothes that today we won't be too late.
We lift up offerings in the tortured songs our tears sing as they run over all the keys engrained in our faces by all the fingers that forlornly stroked our cheeks.
We pray by shaking our fists at the sky as the trees rock and sway, upset by the storm that heads our way, as we fall to our knees because we've no better way to express our need than to let it seep from between our clenched fingers.
Every swish of a desperate eyelash, momentarily hiding the lake frozen inside is a viable thank you that at least no one treads the length of our ice and a request that one day it will melt and even if it leaks from between our lids, we will be able to let it go
Every moment, birds fly from our chests, greeting
the infinite clouds with timely beggar's leaves clutched in their mouths
Misery is not what we claim, but as we walk, we pray, each step pleading for a better path to follow and a heart that doesn't beat with
everyone else's blood pounding so hard
against our own
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