I worship not with hymns or knees,
but in the rustle of the trees,
in socks that vanish in the wash,
and toast that lands, of course, jam-squash.
I’ve built a chapel in my brain,
with pews of doubt and tea-stained rain,
a steeple made of “Could be, though,”
and sermons whispered soft and low.
No angels here, no Book of Rules—
just dreams...
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