but I had grabbed your cloak,
I had grovelled through dirt and grime to reach you.
you were my last hope,
my last bit of dusk before the darkness set in.
so why did you turn away?
why did you ignore my pleas?
I was left with a piece of your robe,
but what I wanted was a piece of you.
vain was my faith,
futile was my hope;
now the darkness sets in,
and I am left with it,
the prophets, poets, and pilgrims
all told me to count on you.
they said I would be damned
to not have faith in your power,
but only fools climb mountains without maps,
and only blind men dream of looking at trees.
was it all a charade,
a well-written play,
a throw of pretty words in just the right order?
phylacteries and fringes told me you were good,
told me you were God.
but now I see that you are just a man.
Would Yahweh truly leave the decadence of heaven
to come and sit among the shit of man?
what kind of ruler would choose to be ruled?
(alas, a rock.)
as I walk,
as I stumble,
as I fall,
I walk differently,
I stumble slowly,
two strong hands hold me,
the piece of garment falls from my hands,
as they are filled with his.
sitting down on the dirt,
it is him.
man (or Son?) of God,
with garment torn,
sitting next to me,
brushes me off,
and asks me if I’m okay,
and how my week is going.
I can’t remember how my week is going.
I am busy looking at the trees.