MY RELIGIOUS MIND

 You seem to be

a distant god,

a mortal one.

The one who turns

my blood to wine,

the one who walks 

above my teary ocean.

I stab myself thrice a day,

my prayer doesn't 

reach your ears.

I sing a thousand songs,

my heart's lyre broken.

I chant two thousand spells, 

my tied tongue bleeds.

No revelations,

blind prophecies.

Still I refuse not to

trust you, and

to adore another

among 33 million.

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