Poem: Saints of a Different Order

img_1603

Saints of a Different Order

When I was a child, I hid in the church attic,
lying in wait
the the demons,
those creatures of evil the preacher assured me
were all around the sanctuary,
dark wraiths waiting to suck our souls dry
like some spiritual vampire.

At ten, they were more real to me than God,
and such was my faith in myself that I was certain
I could discover them and in a moment of surprise
destroy them with my cross and my small knife,
found a year earlier in the woods,
certain my years of Sunday School would be my shield
as I reduced the mighty to dust, more lethal than David
and his stones.

All the attic held, however, was the broken and forgotten,
relics, covered in dust, no longer worthy
to live in the holy places, and yet, I learned,
with each dusty box opened, there was still magic there,
still life beyond the banishment.
And so it came that I began to worship
in the dark places, finding God where others did not,
in the broken, in the left behind, finding in them not demons
but saints of a different order.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s