i do not understand

freedom is a heavy burden, tonight
when the voices of saints are free to go quiet
when those whose faces shone
go blank and dark
or perhaps brighter with another god

your gift is a terrible thing
to allow your art to think against you
to allow my mind to curse your clay-caked hands

you are either a very stupid god
or a very patient one
you either could care less
or your definition of love is more, more, more

(are my thoughts
really
the pointless pulsations of an ape
is the world
really
devoid and temporal
or am I
the frame work of a masterpiece?)

the only truth I have found is in forgiveness
a bloody cross that makes sense
when i remember
what it is like to swallow anothers sin
and redeem
it is blood
it is blood- every time

faith is a terrible gift, tonight
when surrounded by those given the freedom of disbelief and disappointment
i miss their voices, i miss their faces, i miss their light