Standing before the pulpit

won’t bring you closer to god.

Standing on the roof of a church

won’t catch you a glimpse of divinity.

But burning it down might.

Grow wildflowers from its ashes.

You’ll find yourself

on the holiest ground.

Blessed by Its fire,

Soothed by Its soil,

Nurtured by the songs

It has sung

in times behind you.

Standing on the roof of a church,

Perspective finds me.

No closer to god, but maybe to the devil.

Smoke escapes my lips, a sigh

Of incense offered to the infinite

Watching eyes of cold starlight.

From their seats in eternity,

They see but a speck on a

Grand tapestry, inconsequential.

But the speck cares.

And that’s why they watch.