I cannot believe in what I cannot see.
It is limited and harsh, when I was younger
I had thought it made me smart.
I still cannot grasp at cloth edges of faith,
I look for her in glass-stained windows
in humble clouds, in acts of altruistic indulgence.
She prowls in synthetic steeples, I cower in the notes of hymns.
I yearn for hope.
In the meals that I eat, in thankfulness,
I am grateful, but to whom is unknown,
Rain shields my vision, I have these palms
That grapple for a ledge to hoist myself upon,
So that I may find that meaningful view.
Is it fear, of relinquishing my abashed authority,
Or do I lack the will, the urge to bend to another’s?
Though do not misconstrue, I do not berate or wish ill on those who have some semblance of faith,
I envy, boil, simmer in spite,
For yet another thing that is not even about me,
All green for an aspect I do not possess.
It is all so demeaning to stand up from my knees,
Pick all this conviction up, I had said I would never bend,
But tomorrow I am, to the will of the tiniest specs,
Grains of sand that flee these unworthy hands.
But I do not praise, I rather scorn,
The clock, time, the tracking of the sun,
Seconds muttered in my prayer,
I clutch this holy watch and wait for some savior.