My face: A coin
with a date.
It scrapes against rocks
until it is a brown circle,
a metal inedible
chocolate button.

Without identity
there can be no real consequence.

My stomach:
A ricocheted fork
pranging and praying
for stillness
as reverberation
is a gospel singing reverend
who won’t quit.
Lest we forget
the lungs that sweat
a folding,

Who knew each breath could cry?

My heart:
The loud clapping of hands
believing all they hear
from the bible of my brain.
My psalms are clammy
and tight fisted.
Trying for another moist breath
is too much of a cross
to bare.

The hope is in healing.
To grant faith in the unknown.
To allow the coin to save face,
to stop panic reigning down on lungs
and for the fork to remain still
through lack of impact
against me.
For thine is the divine,
the power
and the glory.



One response to “Pray

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