poetic slumber
so here it is, my lazy attempt
at rousing from my poetic slumber
i have not written anything of value
but value is not why the poet ponders
since then, i have realised
that i left some people to wonder.
they ask me about my faith
"Have you pulled the plug?
they ask,
like it is a dying thing.
Afraid that the miracle,
though presumably promised,
is somewhere yonder.
"Aye,"
dry.
"I have,"
tone bitter.
Sorry that your miracle did not arrive
on time
as they preached,
and has come to fail us.
But I have loved more since then.
I do not resent God.
In fact, amongst the church-iest bunch
The One i believe in
might be the God they once sought.
Untamed by ideas of what you deem proper.
Unafraid to believe that sins make you prosper.
No longer disguised by the romantic idea
of the rotten and unrotten -
of hell and heaven
and whom you segregate among us,
the loved and the unloved,
the pure, the unpure,
and the lesser pure who may be saved.
Yes,
I despised.
Still yes,
I have come to despise lesser.
What is life if not an amalgamation
of confusions and distortions?
My writing hand may break
but then, my words may flow easier.
And if I were to become blind
my sight might even be better.
So then it is, you and I -
afraid and unafraid.
I have lost all my limbs
while you prayed in fear,
watching them break.
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