I know the plan I have for you,
he said.
Plans for peace.
And not disaster.
A future filled with hope.
And so I knelt,
a pawn before the bishop:
anointed in his name.
Anointed in the name of bedtime stories,
piney park picnics,
and pomegranate juice.
Anointed in the name of gift wrapping,
virgin velvet dresses,
and chicken noodle soup.
But then the still waters began to drown me.
Heaven wreaking havoc.
Disaster struck,
shattering the colored glass,
to unveil a murky chasm.
Behold the future: Knelt on crumbling concrete stairs,
Unwrapping unmarked graves, and
Sipping curdled carnal blood.
Six-year-old sins
plastered on my forehead.
How can you tell me that God’s Not Dead,
when I can’t stop wishing that I was.
