by Poet on the Piano   Feb 9, 2014

I was unamused by the city's blatant
cry for love-
you could see it in blaring lights and
hungover men pretending they
have no cab ride home.

Though, too often I forget where
I came from.
That this city spit me out of its belly
without guidance.
My name was and is Jonah
and I am still writing my book
of prophetic wisdom.

I roamed over valleys, pathways
of trolleys, back alleys, until
my hands shook with despair.
My plaid coat was held together
by paperclips and staples,
my feet clinging to sandpaper
I had little to lose.
So I roamed, passing centuries
of knowledge I would not be
asked to engage in.
Finally, I stopped feeling sorrowful
and pounded on every door
that had an address visible.
Every building was shut down
by twilight, except for a church
on Northwood Avenue.

I was already a skeptic, so I
wandered in, a spiritless person
not aware of the spirit in that
dry air.
Incense perfumed the room.
Sweet florals and dark chocolate
graced the air as if this was some
holy garden, or a grail for those
willing to repent.

Dark, stain glass windows
stood valiantly at my side
as I approached the lit altar,
candles adorning its humble
A simple white cloth hung over
the table, a golden chalice
with jewels seated like
a throne in the middle.

My words were trapped,
though my thoughts whirled
between each crevice of
the building's history,
an antiphon for a chant
that hadn't been practiced
in decades.

And I stayed in that church
until dawn,
sleeping in the back pew,
not hearing an audible voice
but knowing there was once
a mystic presence.

Someone had once
christened this a holy place...
maybe, I am not too late
to be taken from the grasp
of humanity and no longer
be called a


Written 2/06/14
For Saffie's prompt challenge in the discussion boards.


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Latest Comments

  • 4 years ago

    by Midnight Sky

    Long but good :) 5\5