Will God forgive me if I am wrong about the one I am worshipping?
Will he have sympathy if I know not who to look to in the sky?
Will he cast me down for spending more time on earth looking to the sky for answers than finding them straight ahead?
I have searched the heavens until my neck ached,
until the night bled into my eyes and the stars became ghosts.
I have whispered prayers to shapes that vanished in the morning,
names that never answered back except in echoes of my own voice.
I have knelt on cold ground,
palms open, waiting for something—anything—
but the wind only carried dust,
and the silence swelled like a tide.
Maybe I have worshipped absence.
Maybe I have loved a question more than an answer.
Maybe the truth is not above or below but in the weight of my own breath,
in the pulse that tells me I am still here.
If I have been wrong, let the sky split open and tell me.
Let the ground beneath me shake with the weight of my mistake.
Or let me walk forward, blind but unafraid,
trusting that if I fall, even the fall has meaning.
If my prayers have been whispers into an empty room,
if I have worshipped the absence of an answer,
will you still hold me when I break?
Or was I never held at all?
