delilah_banks

The Cracked Mary



Fog is rolling in across the hills and into the valley,
finally settling on the creek.
Under the weeping willow, I sit and pray to the
unknown god who plays in the branches above me.
Cracked and worn are my hands, but I manage to
weave the orchids and irises into a halo to adorn
my hair.
Katydids worship my feet: an altar decorated with
sacrifices, hopes, death.
In the lilies, cardinals scribble
New testaments on each pebble as
Grasshoppers etch scriptures into my skin.

I sit in molded robes, watching them come and leave
with their Dimity Convictions
Still clutching the right hand of their lover.

Not even the little girl pays notice
Of the promiscuous babble reflecting through the
stained glass,
Taking my truth and
Hiding their lies.
If I were to speak of a
New reality, would He still exist? I
Give them faith, only to taste their distrusting song.

New language and old assurance
Enchant them. I worship the purity of the day. They,
Worship me.