Prayer of the Lost
i am lost,
i know i am.
i drop to my knees and fold my hands
and close my eyes and clear my mind
and wait for the Lord to speak
and hear absolutely…
i clasp my fingers tighter as my legs fall asleep
and get an ache in my wrists
from waiting for Him
to remind me that He
and still there’s not a sound.
my legs sink deeper into the quicksand of the ground
that has claimed more lives it seems
than the God in my dreams.
i think of a homeless man i saw near rainy midnight,
jogging between lanes of a busy street,
flailing his arms as headlights shone
in the puddles by his feet
and he screamed at the approaching wheels,
begging them to slide over his misery
so that he could float high into the sky,
free from thunder and lightning
and finally see the God i’m inviting
in on my prayers.
i know where that man is
even though i am here,
not confident anymore
to drop to my knees;
not focused anymore
to listen for a voice that has nodules in its throat,
perhaps it’s hoarse
from coaxing me out of past pain
and needing to remind me of lessons
already learned again and again,
probably tired from my ignorance and illiteracy
in reading the signs of what is good and bad for me.
my knees ache,
the mushy ground shakes,
i’ve made some mistakes
and don’t know how to pray.
i want smiles to stay and God to be awake
and to escape the nightmare
of ignored prayers,
wake up and no longer be here
but where i was, whatever that was,
maybe that’s why i was
on the path to where i am now.
maybe this is how
genuine communication feels.
one person begging and the other not even real,
imaginary in the circumstance of caring,
devoid of the quality of sharing,
and blankly staring
as i break down the innards of my heart
hoping that the God i think is listening
will recognize the random parts
and find some sort of consistency
and give me a reason to drop down to my knees another day