heaven has no location
yet my prayer is asking for a map.
I make mountains out of my murmurs.
for my smallness of self
is founded on my beliefs
in apprehensions from being besiege.
I have a religion
based on these past thoughts.
time pays me off
with an addiction to my pondering.
for without dialogue with others,
my concept of connection is soulless.
touch, to me is real
as the next choir page I turn to,
as all relationships are seamlessly
this sing-along.
and if this choir around me
is robe-less yet profound,
than the audience, if there is any,
doesn’t have to pay.
and so why am I telling you?
because I also believe
in our heavenly consternation . . .
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