from the crumbling edge

of an insatiable Saturday

I tumble head first into the 

torpor of the god day,

where I founder, drowning 

beneath other peoples’ faith 

and robust sincerity,

a grey parson theatrically 

peels another raffle-ticket

from his library of lies, with 

the muted swagger of a 

gambler betting all-in 

on a dead-cert hereafter,

in this thicket of the faithful

he beseeches me to kneel, so 

I cross my fingers and hope

to be duly cleansed by the

splash of holy water and

poor communion wine as my 

wafer-thin atheism is passed 

from mouth to mouth like a 

tasteless Sunday lunch,

after warm vestry tea and

a custard cream biscuit, my

friends depart with gusto, 

their egos girded one more

time, their faith sated by the 

tang of my tasty flesh, shed 

during my partial crucifixion, 

 

© Graham R Sherwood 06/25