Poetry

Faith

I have no choice but to believe,
or my heart will stop ticking:

a clock run by the grinding gears of the universe,
the world a windmill where
the horizon rolls by-
my cogs are turned in unison
with the winding of the stars

Hope is God’s cruelest creation,
because we pick it up in spite of ourselves-
helpless to its fire,
burning through worlds without
remembering why;
the spark of fuel setting fire
to the tails of our rockets

and you, who
spun me ’round the planets on your
forgotten wings,
frown to see me wheel
across the sky

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