Then He Asks Me For A Prayer
it won’t be long
the Japanese death garden sings wildly
across the world
I whistle back, a soft. black tune
and lose my eyes to winter
I sleep with her on desperate nights,
her hard skin teaches me
I am a body of ache for men to pour their
pain into, she tells me how to behave.
I cry that I am to be a desert,
I am naked, on my way there.
She holds me quick, against her cold
and blows me into prayer,
I lay deep in hell, but I swear, God touches me here.
He reaches through me and pulls
out a song. He whispers, “it won’t be long”
then asks me, again, for prayer.
Posted on August 8, 2013, in Poetry and tagged Cold, death, Depression, Desert, desperation, emptiness, experience, God, hell, journal, life, Literature, love, Mental Health, mental illness, Peace, poetry, prayer, Relationships, Suicide, Winter, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 10 Comments.