There are saints in my house
I don’t know the names of.
It’s no wonder
I hardly know who to pray to anymore.
It was Love some time ago
I first used to pray to-
or perhaps for
but even that is derivative.
Love came to me thousands of years
after it was first conceived.
It is not my creation.
It is not original.
For some it comes in shades of pink.
For me it is strange
and often silent.
Maybe it’s merely acceptance
or forgiveness.
I suppose I just don’t want it
to live next to pretending
If it was real -
If I could touch it often,
Maybe then
I would know.

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