convictions and funerals

the stained glass is telling ancient stories
rich colors, archaic depth
the coy expressions and dramatic postures
of Jesus' followers, both living and captured

the bishop's language is as foreign to me as the
latin inscriptions etched in the glowing windows
I become embarrassed at my quiet, stuttering responses
to prayers I don't understand

Someday I wish to throw down the kneeling bench with conviction,
drop down onto bruised knees, curled feet negotiating the orange carpet
and pray, pray, pray,
assuring my loved ones that they haven't lost me, I am taking the path to righteousness

But the pale, longing faces of Jesus' followers
that cover the walls and fill the pews of this church
are only a sordid reminder of the misunderstanding and hypocrisy
that have forced this little soul to flit and flutter away

i have found my religion in the wind, and in my heart
in the rain that falls, and in the bright sunlight
a private conversation between me
and whatever may be