Apr 25

clawing at the ceiling


I cry to the congregation, Hebrew enveloping my tongue.
Rasped and weak, yet I bellow, 
cradling my beast of religion. 
The sterling silver weight I branded on my chest prides me,
The Star of David dangling from my throat.

The existence of god teases me and tugs at my hair. 
Do you mean to tell me that stars are ripped from the sky,
and stuffed into the straight man’s ideals?
I bow to irony, a jungle of contradiction
Beset by the rigidness of belief and the fluidity of divinity. 
Confusion plagues my mind, counting down from ten,
starting with darkness.