Handled With Prayer Poem by Abraham de la Torre

It was for kin and kith I chose to shed
The skin of sin and flesh and bones beneath
Because I couldn’t hope to even reach
The temple much less be worth being it.

There was no need for promises. I said
Forgive. The word, a seven-letter sword,
Proceeded to impale my darkest ghosts
And then assumed a mouth to say forget;

The world, what used to blind my eyes and heart,
Became devoid of dark and fancy art.
It stripped me of the self and gave me trust
The others, too, will have their chance to opt

For change. Compulsion cannot be dictated,
Choice is made between a mind that’s right
And ripe and up for making. Wrong is not
Allowed inside a house of praise and psalms

Sung in earnest and on knees that know the
Virtue of a quiet wish. A gentle place
Where talking is a whisper made in peace.
For peace that man may find each other’s grace.

Preoccupation fought its many tries
To penetrate the fragile countenance
Of renewal in its early stage, pangs
Of birth too evident tor predators

To pounce on. While the flames would sometimes lick
And get a taste of indecision, faith
Kept vigil, was not disappointed. She
And I would ultimately reunite.