#15 SIN CHRONICLES | A BEVY OF PAIN: LET US PRAY

These verses are the sum total of my early morning meanderings. Once again I have zoomed my lens on afterlife and faith and I am trying to ask questions that I do not have answers to. I envy you who are so sure of what awaits you when you leave here

_{Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash.}

This world is filled with mysteries and misery. You need to have something burning within you to keep you going and you need to be willing to part with some of you to keep this world from burning. What do you believe in? Who do you believe in? Are you satisfied, happy?

For there's enough pain, War and strife here for all of us. What will hell offer us who fail, falter and fall? What will this life feed our children, these innocent beings that run around carefree?

I do not have answers, I just ask the questions. Enjoy the poetry and whatever your thoughts may be, try not to judge me much. You do not know me.

---

THE CALL

---

_{Photo by Reiner Knudsen on Unsplash.}

The cry comes,
Fills my ears with Allah's praise.
The muezzin fills the cold morning
With the call to seek God.
Where is God?
Is he listening?
Is he hearing?

The cry tugs me
To my knees,
To Mecca,
To touch my head to the sands,
To seek my creator's face.
Will he see me?
Will he allow my prayers
Come into his abode,
Sit with him and tell him
Of all that is in me?

---

A SOLDIER'S LAMENT

---

_{Photo by Stijn Swinnen on Unsplash.}

My battles are fought,
Scars crease my skin
Like torn, crumpled paper
And pain fills my bones
Like heat; hungry and sweet.

My gun sits, rusting in the shadows,
My uniform lies on the bed,
Old bullet holes
On its sad skin
Telling a tale with silent lips.
My hands grip, squeeze, release
The chair's armrest.
My limbs lay, broken, shackled,
Useless, senseless before me.
I want to be free of this prison.
My hands grip, squeeze, release
And sweat beads above my eyelids.

I hunger and thirst for the unseen,
For this place, were everything is free,
Where they say the pain stops,
Where they say
I can become a better being
But even my prayers are not mine to say,
My lips are benumbed with pain.

Will they ever let me go?
I have seen all of man's fabled love.
I have tasted of his charity,
I am full
With the satisfaction of his gifts.
I want no more.
Please let me go to this heaven
They always speak of or,
Let me go to hell.
I have an idea of what it is like;
I have been there before.

---

STAKING WITCHES IN THE 21ST CENTURY

---

The prayer warriors circle their rooms,
Witches and enemies; shadows
Hanging on every shadowed space,
Lips drooling with blood,
Waiting, watching, wanting.

Tongues spill like rap music,
Like a rant as the scent of olive oil
Fill the space and death,
Fire and brimstone is rained down
From the lips of saints
On the broken and the dying,
On the lonely and the sick
On the pagan
Who loves his god just as much
As they do theirs.

---

WHERE DO BROKEN BODIES GO TO REST?

---

Hell is nothing.
It is a figment of tortured minds.
It is a creation of deranged beliefs.
This earth,
You see her hips and full breasts?
You see her soft, sweet lips
And the curve of her eyebrows,
You see her white teeth
And her soft, soft skin?
She is all the pain that you will see,
Remember and feel.
When she is done with you,
You will wonder who this hell is for?
After all is this not hell enough?
Have you not suffered enough?

---

OH YEAH SAINTS!

---

_{Photo by Vangelis Evangeliou on Unsplash.}

Yes, I am a whore.
Yes, I have opened the tender spot,
Where the heat of my soul,
A fire that calls men
Like moth to a candle flame lies,
To the deep, mindless thrust of the world.

I have watched broken men,
Angry men, sad men, happy men,
Even some who are in love,
Fumble my skirt zip,
Struggle with my lacy panties,
Break the hook and eye of my bra
With sweaty paws,
Then grunt, whisper names
Of girls long gone,
Girls who will never be me
And pour seeds like flushed waste
Down into me.

Yes, I go home
To the silence of my thoughts
And I try to remember which comes first;
'Forgive us our trespasses'
Or 'lead us not into temptation.'
I am a whore
But did he not say he came for me?
Why do you judge me then,
Oh yeah saints?

---

©warpedpoetic, 2018.