Treasure Island

Ella Goodman


Worship


Your place of worship may be not mine,
I feel his presence in my mind.
Incense, flowers, sandal paste,
All it feels a mere waste.

In my backyard when I stroll at night,
Aloof and alone away from sight,
I feel his presence in the eriee light
When twinkling stars paint the sky.

I hardly ever visit his so called home,
Elaborate ceremonies bore me to core,
I find him in those innocent eyes,
The hunger struck child that wanders nigh,

In the midst of pebbled path,
Wild green heads when spring from its heart,
I find him smiling in the dust,
Embracing weeds with both his arms.

Every morning ray that bask my soul,
In its glory I find him console,
When torrents blow my heart to piece,
I find his presence in the blowing breeze.

In soft smile he answers all my need,
When in solemn mood I seek his bliss,
Troubled waves too splash me worn,
Then I know he meant it for reasons yet to be known.

So what if your place of worship is not mine?
Jewelled idols impress not my find,
I find him in the harsh cries of crow,
Among the trash and abandoned shores.

He is there in every scattered speck,
Imprisoned in concrete walls is not his make,
Thus I smell his fragrance strong,
In withered leaves and long dried logs.

Elaborate prayers and bribes in gold,
Pierce his ego make him grow cold,
He is there in every being,
Croocked branch or broken twig.

I feel his presence when I close my eyes,
I see him in the child that cry,
In innocence there he lies,
In every tear he there resides.!

Submitted: Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, July 15, 2014

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Topic(s): life

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