Faith was a thing I used to do.
For priested craft allowed me to
be agent of belief’s conceit –
enacted passion was complete
expression of the ungrasped truth
of pious hopes of callow youth.
Indeed, it was. For it allowed
faith’s burden’s carriage by the crowd
for whom the acted words somehow
contrived to promise things that vow’s
vicarious task absolved me from.
The host in hand, the merest crumb,
I clasped until it fell apart.
It’s strange that as we reach the start
of Holy Week – the doer’s time –
the call still chants the faithless rhyme
of faithful desperation’s cry.
For godforsaken-caught am I,
and glimmer’s glimpse still draws me in
towards that hope, so stubborn-thin.