Apostate

Today is a grey day,
A grey and unborn day.
It is a Wednesday, a tired mother,
A day when movement seems meaningless.
Today is a weary and joyless repentance day.
Today we wear down our knees a little more,
Praying the prayer again
That went unanswered on a bleak yesterday.
Today is a day I need forgiveness for.
I break my grey brain against the sky,
Hoping to hatch something besides my thoughts of myself.
Today I hate myself for resenting someone’s happiness.
Today is grey like a mirror-back,
A useless fog-reflection.
The old-man-age of midwinter fumbles at my mind
And coughs on my doorstep.
Today is a day of ash on a forehead.
I return to prayer,
Waiting and soul-sick,
For joy to come of the mourning.

Please remember as you read this: this poem does not necessarily reflect my character or temperament. It is an attempt to capture a certain mood, a certain mind. This is not a good poem, in that it offers nothing for imitation. Think of it as an apostate person remembering the joy of faith. Think of Dostoevsky’s underground man, yearning for peace that he cannot have.

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