Poems

Grimy Hands

Sitting on these light purple pews
Seeing a man of God proclaim epiphany after epiphany
Having everyone's attention
Until you walk into the room

You had come in late
The sun streaming through the windows
Down the back of that weathered leather jacket
Those greased pants
Those greased hands
That greased mind
Which has not lost its grime
after all these years

You push me sideways to make way for you
Your odor of oil overpowering the scent of incense
And as the man of God points at all sinners
You look at your grimy hands through obscured eyes
Wondering your purpose for being here
For you are blind
And have stumbled into foreign territory
Hoping that an arrow doesn't
pierce the breast, the spot
Where your heart should be

Questions race through your mind
Causing your feet to move frantically
In a panic
For an answer your blind eyes can't see

Do you really believe that the answer is at the heart
Of that black, craggy mountain
poking that dark, moonless sky,
where no light shines,
Or has ever shone,
for you?
Do you really believe that taking a jump off that illusion of a chasm is such a daunting task?
Is reality too much for you to handle?

Sitting on these light purple pews
Seeing you fidget as you fight reality
To keep control of your illusion
I wonder if you would believe me