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Disoriented

I'm not sure
Of much of anything, anymore.
Everything feels upside-down,
Inside-out,
As the church metes out grace
With caveats and codicils.

I was always told
That the cure for all ills
Was to take two tablets of God,
Three times a day,
With a glass of prayer.

But that never bore weight,
And now I can feel the ground cracking,
so forgive me if it just doesn't feel like enough
these days.

Don't give me platitudes.
Those empty words are wearing thin,
Nothing more than wisps of air
Passed over vocal cords,
Exhaled and shaped
By flesh and bone.
We see right through them.

Were there ever dry bones walking,
faith with skin on?
While I'm being blunt,
Have you ever seen a resurrection?
Is it possible
For faith to live and act and breathe
Undying?

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