I walk on faith, a splinted, golden crutch,
Where once I flew in knowing’s native air;
The wound is old—no memory of the touch,
Just phantom wings and ache I cannot bear.
The veil was stitched before my birth, they say,
By archons blind, who rule the things that rot;
They named it “truth,” and taught my lips to pray—
A borrowed speech for what my soul forgot.
But still I limp toward light I do not see,
My balance held by hymns I cannot feel,
Each creed a cast around the mystery,
Each sacrament a brace that makes me kneel.
Yet in this bracing faith, some ghost remains—
The shape of knowing pulsing through the veins.
This entry was posted on Sunday, June 15th, 2025 at 3:39 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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