The Swallows and the Sunsets

Born in the Water of the Holy, Drowned in it

I sit on the field in front of God.
My soul and feet bare.
She tells me He's not there.

We sit around the table.
I listen
As catholics who lost their faith in Him tell me why.
Tell me that the monotone prayers started to sound like background noise to their ears.
That people's calls for help weren't calls anymore.
It was just a routine in their lives until the end of it came.

The glossy wood finish on the pews were degrading with scratches from the nails of older women clawing their way to the top of what they perceived what it meant to be a good woman.

My parents hang a cross above the front door for their safe keeping inside the Golden Gates.
It stares down at me in irony.
They're the least godly people God knows.

I live next to a church that's calling me.
I've never stepped foot in.
Not knowing what practice I belong to.
Not knowing the judgement I would receive from who raised me - they believe because they don't know what else to do.
Born in the water of the Holy. Drowned in it.

I was born into a home for the angry.
A child of god loving nothing but the rage.
Taught to love thy neighbor out of a thick book with thin pages.
The way I was raised counteracts what they preached to me.
My first feeling towards God was anger.
How could you take her from me?

You think you're so Holy?
Wait until God meets you at the Gates.
Taught to hate.
Solace is not the place for you.
You will not sleep.
The wicked never do.

I sit on the field in front of God.
My soul and feet bare.
My sister telling me that the book is nothing but a scare.
I never knew where to go from there.

This was the poem I wrote from the line I wrote a couple months ago. I was very tired - not sure any of this even makes sense - and finally found some words that fit with it.
The line I loved so much was the whole first stanza :)