My poetry is like my faith,
inasmuch as it’s neglected.
I only kneel before the barren page
where my misery’s reflected.
I light a prayer-shaped stanza
and I hope that God attends.
The sins that I divulge to dust,
discount the prayers I penned.
It’s ritual, not rapture,
this half-remembered creed.
I offer up my emptiness
to justify my need.
If inspiration answers,
it’s hardly heaven-sent.
Just my echo in a darkened room
where all my meaning went.