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Who will?

Who will hear our prayer,
echoing through the empty air
that divides us, an appeal
to something unseen and unseeable,
our invocation lost among nothing?

Who will hear our psalm,
the choir humbly beseeched
by a chorus reverberating with thanks
in its every deliverance before
the entreating congregation?

Who will answer our pleas,
voices searching for seraphic blessing
while some celestial body
of spiritual vitality circles —
words bouncing in the void?

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How absurd

The comprehensive volume
ate the details for a reader’s
digestion, its stomach aching for
absolution. How absurd is heaven?
Beyond life — an after life like a river
struggling to find its course while
bemused water fowl refuse
to follow the march to eternity.

The wandering fact
missed the hereafter, forfeiting glory
for eternal restlessness, light
balancing good and evil while
the judge looks bored in black.
What of the crowing girl who murders
a scarecrow? The last straw
dances in fields of gray.

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A figment

What ghoulish guardians have we created,
materialized from nothing
(or at least
our imaginations) brought into being

for our benefit?
They must watch us

from the sky, or on our shoulder,
or having ascended to a place

we mustn’t comprehend, from some
heavenly vantage point.

What faith we instill
in cherished choruses of cherubs, imaginary
(or at least
invisible to me) while we count down

to joining them?
An advent calendar

for atheists merely leads
to disappointment.

We implore them,
asking the winds to change
(or at least
dissolve) demanding death divorce

taxes and embrace uncertainty.

Still they do not listen.
(Or at least
I do not imagine them to. My imaginary

friends long forgotten.)

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