As I sit bathed clean
by rays of light,
beneath a canopy of trees,
I sometimes think
of the lost ones,
are they still alive
or has fate seen them
waste away into the great beyond.

Then by chance
or some ill coordinance
we meet, its always the same.
Been straight for two weeks
or three, maybe four,
but never below two,
or above four.
It never changes.

The next moment
must be caused by
whats in my eyes,
the look on my face.

The sleeves roll up,
arms fold out,
palms out stretched,
like Jeus showing his wounds
to the non-believers.
Punctured pale skin,
those scars,
badges of reaccurance.

The last one went
on and on about prayer.
I, the doubting Thomas,
can't see their prayers
lofting skyward,
but visualize their
ill fated psalms boiling
in a spoon over flickering
candle light,
filtered through cotton,
then ramed back into the soul
with the ferocious velocity,
that collapses veins
and rips away life.