Violent Prayers

I have cried those violent prayers hurled them, venom filled, cursing all the powers that be - but aren’t. Seething in the roiling pit of rage alone amid the nothingness of all, yet still felt the presence of a something, a texture, a tenuous touch of windblown curtain brush against my clenched and hateful fists. I pounded mercilessly on the sands of doubt’s mirage, laid siege the bastions of the liars, fled in fear of a power’s lack of power. A strength now shown so weak, a vision’s searing heat laid cold, an emptiness so full it led to barren desolation, blank and blackened dreams. I wept. Not for me but for he who was sacrificed so that I could become me, for the child denied his chance to live free of me, my hate, my rage, my past, my pain. And so my prayers are violent and loud in an effort to awaken a deaf and distant God. My prayers do not beseech forgiveness, nor toss bouquets of unwarranted praise to acquiescent arrogance. I pray not for others who are capable of praying for themselves. I pray as violently as the wind blows, as heatedly as the desert sun, as proudly as the leaves of Fall, as meekly as the buds of Spring, as coldly as the glacial gales. I pray with the passion of the seasons, the faith of a bumblebee’s pollination, the hope of the sightless mole digging, the love of the shrieking Eagle’s devotion to the air currents. I pray as a Lark who sing in empty canyons hearing only the reverberation of his song. I pray – for praying is the song of life - and life - its voice. John G. Lawless 9/3/2014 for Regina Riddle - Prayer poetry contest