Faith is a fickle fiend.
I tell myself after every lost war
that my belief in God
is a figment of everybody’s imagination
forced onto mine
like a dome over my endless skies.
It is all my anticipation
placed upon a loose thread,
a broken bridge,
a map filled with paper towns,
and basically anything that will abandon me midway
with no breadcrumb trail to follow home.
Yet I find my footsteps
stumbling over the same flight of stairs
in search for hope.
Isn’t it funny
how we choose to associate
hope and faith
with names and faces
we’ll never really know,
as if to say
that hope is just another horizon
always out of our reach.
Belief is a mathematical equation
with far too many variables
in a world that’s too accustomed to calculators,
which is why,
people will believe anything
as long as they are not the ones questioned.
I am not saying belief is a bad thing,
or that I don’t believe in God,
because I do.
I find myself praying more often than not,
with folded hands and closed eyes,
and a phantasmagoria of every person I’ve ever loved,
because my prayers have long since been religious.
I cannot question that which I do not understand,
so I choose to step away,
send up prayers like dandelions seeds,
hoping for somebody waiting at the other side to catch them
and let them grow.