Member-only story
Gangly, Grateful, and God-Like
To those born in the dark — who eventually found light.
Spiritual shootouts in front of corner churches and street synagogues.
Spend your days pondering whether you’re paying tide or being robbed.
I hear we’re both still a few miracles short of sainthood.
But fear will kill the same dreams that do your brain good.
So satan can say what she has to, to me and mine.
I just hope she and her demons can read between the lines.
Because all of us are little more than lost shepherds.
We became successful as jesters and then thought less of the lepers.
Slums where dice games become prayer groups of stick-up kids and killers.
Ones who like shame, and might maim you for not raising them, a bit chiller.
Preteen shooters who stopped playing when nobody would feed ‘em the ball.
They stole back the cash they had long ago paid back to both Peter and Paul.
The streets provided us with bibles and begged us not to swear on them.
Now they sit dormant on doorsteps, they collect dust as we stare at them.
Because we never believed the gospel as you preached or believed it.
We know your unredeemable deeds of the past are the only reason u read it.
As for us, they call us Gods now and throw prayers at us from afar.
Catch us trying to turn wine back into water, out front of your corner bar.
