Where has the magic gone, the tired energy
that pulls you through the rituals and chorus of amens?
Though the night is young and the morning younger
I remember a subtle electricity and incense that would
surround the stained glass and Eucharist
and if only for that hour
make you believe and give you faith.
I struggle to recapture even some of that magic
some of that faith and joy
but I realize I no longer hold the beliefs of the others in the room
and I wonder what the being we have come to honor feels about that
That I would write the Book of Kimberly and lay my views
in the open for them to dissect or adopt
and care not if they called me Satan's whore
and burn me for daring to question and create
I wonder if Christ had these same daydreams
and if his arrogance could possibly be greater than mine