I Listen to the Stories

I heard you tell the story,
and looked to find myself,
yet absent as I seemed to be,
’twas anger that I felt.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
and Jesus in the garden,
His own father did not answer him –
I’m not surprised that I’m forgotten.

But to walk away, and shake the dust,
my son would miss a chance, 
to learn what love is meant to be,
without the song and dance.

Without the demon looking down,
or bouncing on his knees,
no obligation to satisfy,
salvation not a tease.

No dirty water for forgiveness,
or embrace that makes you shiver,
no power given to a man,
who decides how he’ll deliver.

It’s not the space we’ve come to breathe,
we love our safe new home,
though sitting in a crowded room,
I often feel alone.

But I listen to the stories,
most of the prayers I say,
I kneel and take the cup again,
and survive another day.

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