It all drops cold.
Begins a warm persuasion-
A sudden pique of curiosity.
But belief is hard to hold-
those elephants and grey beards
and 8 arms swinging wildly-
and Lava flowing auburn hair,
that claims and seals
a torrid lair.
Gospel of all shapes and sizes,
most of which are soon despised.
altars, Pendants, spirit totems-
Sacred bones and blasphemed tomes,
somber, sacred tales are spoken
immense in scope.
Too big for tiny eyes to read,
or straining ears to hear.
remains the desire to commit,
be part of a whole,
A place to hang your sagging skin,
your tired nomad soul;
A cozy hearth,
not vacant hole-
so i steal the mitre of the pope.
inbred the urge to find a trust,
an unchanged certainty,
but still i run,
still i flee-
and so it sadly seems,
that Faith does not appeal to me.