By Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
praying is, for such as I
the first and perhapsonly try
reaching out within my soul
having failed at social role
sweet words seldomleave mylips
nor do I emerge from trips
primed with cheer Your mood to spread
to those who await or bed
down with sickly spirit flesh
weakened under viral mesh
holding down what would comeup
stomach or heart, wisdom's sup
You always can see my need
and the passion I would feed
if my thougths weren't paper-mint
and my face not sent like flint
I would cleanse, massage the soul
of the happy and cosole
poverty-entrenched or left
in the dream of money cleft
from the soul the mind so lost
wandering and evil-tossed
reaching out for what is wrong
listening for tyrant's song
charisma, persuasion gifts
I do not possess norlifts
eyes and hopes by being there
can'tmend cloth that gloom will tear
but compassion offered for
anyone whose life is sore
I can show to You and stroke
as though I were there to stoke
fire made by You or Yours
they can see You as grace pours
into every hidden place
film of gloom and sick replace
with a canopy of lace
beauty so protective holds
sacraments as hand unfolds
covers altar, adorns head
decorates the faithul dead
prayer and hope thought interlace
soul to soul You interface
heart to heart Your spirit makes
trail of fire closes space
nothing,Lover, left bewteen
those who love You, spread and preen
in the glory resurrect
as with humans intersect
You the priest and sacrifice
risen joining humans twice
spirit, body live as one
King of ever daughter, son
meet the flesh and spirit run
in Your body life is won
fire born and soul begun
in Your flames the mystery
solved for all eternity
You the first and all we see
last and always we are free
