watterson

Tenebrae

A hallowed countdown, the whispers
of smoke waft through the Basillica.
I can't help but think about rocket launches,
and that You've been locked and loaded
to pierce the horizon on a vessel
destined to explode: a cosmic shattering
as holy bits rain down from the atmosphere.

Between prayers and psalms, they are extinguishing
all the candles. You are crying through the chorus,
cursing forsakenness, and while You wail
about abandonment, somehow I still cannot keep
my exam ridden eyes open, garden dozing
as Your vision grows bloody.

They keep one candle lit and everything else
is flashed into darkness. The lonely flame
of resurrection floats to the exit, and I watch it disappear.
We rattle the pews and kick at the floors.
I smile at this mock earthquake, but catch myself,
the darkness pressing inwards. Silhouettes
meld together. This sound does not fill the room
the same way the light did.

Please come back. I have been pushing You
out; I am causing this earthquake, and
I want to do better, and
I am sorry for everything.  

---
apr "13," 2017
*coughs* your catholic is showing