I attended midnight mass
pissed.
Intentionally, but without purpose,
my hair held back
by a black band.
Stood at the back
in a corner
facing east.
Phosphorescent light illuminates
every cracked plaster crevice,
but not my soul.
I leaned against the wall.
The priest paused
for dramatic effect,
extolling the wise use
of wine
in allowing you closer
to the Lord.
This is the true meaning of Christmas,
they tell me.
I glance at the plaque
at eye-level,
beneath a commemorative
holly wreath.
Red berries hang
like medals,
recognition for the conclusion
of the original mission
and acceptance
of the next.
He was older,
but she lived longer.
So, I refused
to recite the Creed
as I don't know what it means.
Waxwork fingers clasp
a worried book
of common prayer.
The order of service holds
no questions.
I feel no need
to beg
for answers I don't believe
are real.
Communion tasted
and blessings shared fairly.
I already have had mine,
I'm sure it could be smelt.
In the sight
of a wooden idol
clay feet crumble.
It doesn't occur to me to care.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good work hun.Nice to watch how your style is developing.