Holy, Or Heathen? I Can't Tell.
Holy, Or Heathen? I Can't Tell. religion stories
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uglytriceratops
uglytriceratops Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   9 months ago
I got sad in church, so I wrote a poem.

Holy, Or Heathen? I Can't Tell.

Stained glass reminds me of your eyes. Morning light shines through, scatters dancing rainbows across the floor, the pews, my skin.

I see light. The divine. It's burning me up inside and out. I can feel the sun in my toes and my fingertips. In my veins and in my soul.

I see shining at the end of this tunnel. My Lord God is light. Lucifer is light. I can't tell if it's heaven or hellfire

There's a vase of daisies on the altar. I'm on my knees, littering white-as-snow petals around me. "He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me... maybe."

I dream of gemstones and glory, and wake to apathy and malice.

White flowers are soft as gossamer between my fingers, His name is bitter on my tongue.

The Morningstar is haunting my periphery. Or is that an angel? Is there a difference?

I pretend it's just a shadow, and keep praying to the stale, electrically-charged air.

God is Love. He is jealousy and goodness. Empathy and mercy. Ruthless. Complete in His forgiveness, and absolute in his vengeance.

He goes to war with children following after Him. They are hungry and dirty, and ask for His help. He spills the blood of archangels, and tells His children He will be home soon, just another century or so.

Stop complaining. Count your blessings. Be good, or I'll wash your mouth out with hellfire and holy water.

He's coming. It's a promise and a threat. Are you afraid? You will be. I am.

"He loves us. He loves us not. He loves us... maybe."

You'd better pray He does.

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