Some never doubt – their
faith inhabiting
their loneliness, the
trick being not to move
a muscle, wrapped upon the
kernel of themselves.
Some always doubt – never
alight; never ensnared,
they ask their lonely selves
the questions – rarely God.
Only when their throats
are broken; too exhausted to jump
to another conclusion do they
settle near the brink,
only to soon flap away again
at a handclap starting,
flushed in the air, in the
air, in the air
where hovers the illusion
of autonomy.
O child of God, there’s no
rest
except in death and
surrender.
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