Humbly, I kneel before your altar.

As the sun rises, so do I.
Tired and weary, I drag myself to the altar
hoping to meet my muse.
Some days they readily greet me.
Others, they are silent and unseen.

In her absence, I look elsewhere
to false idols.
Thinking, that could be me.
But I’m left wanting,
insufficient, always inadequate;
never enough.

I should know better.
Many a Sunday I heard the tale of the irreverent Nebuchadnezzar,
his blasphemy an allegory
for the pitfalls of a false ideology.

But what else am I to do when left to my own devices?

In these moments, disturbing thoughts obscure my vision.
Hypotheticals, as my mind is wont to do.

What if this is it?
What if this is all there is?
What if this is all I am?
Could I accept that?

I don’t think so.
I have to be more.

O Lord, I don’t know who I am anymore.
Once upon a time, I had a clear vision of who I thought I was
but I fear it was merely a fantasy.

Am I a boy?
Surely not!
Am I a girl?
Next question.

To love me is to undergo an overwhelming metamorphosis.
Bravery and strength —
these things demanded of me, yet I am wholly lacking.

I am not strong
and I am not brave.
I am fucking terrified.

I am nothing but meek and small
despite my above-average frame,
a cruel joke from an even crueler creator.

If I kneel at your altar and clasp my hands,
will you light the way?

If I bow my head and surrender my worries,
will you teach me the truth?

If I confess my sins and expel jealously from my heart,
will you breathe life into this flesh?

I feel weaker than I’ve ever been,
unsure if I can bear this weight until its destination.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to the way things used to be —
everything was simpler then.

But this I know to be true:
willful ignorance may have been easy,
but it was a product of the serpent’s conniving tongue.
Nothing but Death awaited in that place.

Enshrouded in a thick gloom,
faith is difficult to sustain.
At times, it’s all I can do to stop myself from screaming.

Then I think about your teachings
your awesome image
your warm bosom —
to be in your charge is to be loved
and realize this has all been worth it.

In you, I entrust my everything.