They speak of faith,
but I hear only words.
They praise a man they do not see,
when I praise a name I try to believe.
A cross in their minds,
a scratch on my heart.
Sins,
or mistakes?
I am left mystified,
as to how so many
can believe
with so little.
They remind me of an excited child,
smiling with joy,
as a single cracker sits in their palm.
I feel like an odd,
in a group of evens,
in a place,
where the almighty takes you in.
No arms,
no words,
just a book that has long since been praised.
I sit in my secluded area
of wondering and curiosity,
like the book seldom used in a library.
Positions and laws,
religions and prayers.
Who do I pray to,
when death is at my siblings door?
Who do I worship,
when facts budge in?
Not Him.
Not when I've screamed,
cried,
howled,
into thin air,
that won't breathe my words.
Belief?
Or atheist?
I'm trying to see,
but my eyes seemed to be blind.
My ears must be deaf.
Because all I hear is silence,
like the solid moon above me,
smiling with a wicked grin,
and cold eyes.