If water could be made holy through the silver ball that hangs,
pushing it out like rain to bead against my pale face, do you think
it could gather up the poison from beneath my skin? could it run in trails
down my naked back and suck the demons into each drop
and flush them down the drain? could it calm this tension growing
in my stomach? Could it flood on through and preform the miracle
that I need right now, multiplying a fish to help feed the crowd
of angry sinners in my head? Would they quiet down then, leave me
to listen to the rush of water, the gurgle of it falling down.
He says from all sin He will wash me clean. He says for all these ashes
I will someday turn to rose. He says that even in the dark when I lie beneath
the devil, when I leave this body that He's scultped out for me, even when
I cry and cry and swear I'm no one but alone, He's already here,
if just a figurative shadow in the corner of this room that sits and lets
the tears run down His own face as they run down mine and feels this torture
with me and understands. If water could be made holy could it save this tired
soul, could it wash the heavy outer layer of hatred from my body, and do you think
He could forgive?
