When I am not,
Picking out words,
I’ve sometimes felt my heart,
Swell and push against my gall,
But then,
Aren’t we supposed to be,
A sanctum of all things holy?
The pulse that feeds the idol beneath?
Parchments or prescriptions,
Whatever you may call them,
May replace a faith in tatters,
But then where is denial when you need it?
Almost fittingly,
Conflicting trepidations of hope,
They are abandoning me,
My friends are a memory,
Seldom thinking to myself,
“Are we done yet?”,
But the wound is only growing steeper,
Not deeper,
The tears are gushing out red,
It’s all rather turning out fine,
For a first time,
Hesitation is a coward strife,
So it’s all rather turning out fine,
For a first time.
