A False God

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.


What are you looking for?