Take this stole
from my neck,
this robe
off my back.
You don’t scare me
with your salt.
I will look back.
Pull this cross
from my chest,
yank this Bible
outta my hand.
I’m over it, God.
You take them
to that promised land
Block me from
the pulpit,
keep me from
the font.
My well is dried up,
living water’s all gone.
My soul wastes from want.
In case you
haven’t noticed,
I’m tired and I’m worn.
Exhausted from the
trying,
the worry and the
strain.
My prayers return unanswered,
so, yes, I will
complain.
The good news
feels damn lousy,
your kingdom
just won’t come.
Hope has left
the building,
the parts outdo the
sum.
This poem is for
the clergy,
the prophets and
the priests.
Feed us like
you promised,
or make this calling
cease.
The sheep have
bruised the shepherd,
the hens embraced
the fox.
It’s lonely where
I’m standing,
the one outside the
box.
