There are times
I cannot behold
my own mysteries.
Why is it that when I go to church,
sometimes,
it feels like my soul is ripped open
and I am laying there naked
and afraid
and whole?
They say I have the gift of tears
but many times it does not feel like a gift.
They burn in my eyes
run down my cheeks
wet my shirt.
Oh for what love do I ache?
For what sense of wholeness
do I long for?
And what if it is never to be found?
I cannot behold
my own mysteries.
Why is it that when I go to church,
sometimes,
it feels like my soul is ripped open
and I am laying there naked
and afraid
and whole?
They say I have the gift of tears
but many times it does not feel like a gift.
They burn in my eyes
run down my cheeks
wet my shirt.
Oh for what love do I ache?
For what sense of wholeness
do I long for?
And what if it is never to be found?
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