If he exists or not is not the point
It is faith that keeps us on
Words from pops, words of soul
So every Sunday is church day
But the preacher has me in knots
He assumes he exists and that's the point
My suspension of disbelief is needed most
The narratives are wise, the stories tight
But I met God and I don't think he is him
My hand on your shoulder;
Your hand on my waist.
We shuffle across the ballroom.
The other dancers swoon by us--
Elegant and graceful
Perfect and in sync.
We struggle to keep some sense of rhythm between us
But I'm two steps ahead of the tune
While you drag your feet.
There is nothing here but we pretend
For the sake of our parents
And for the sake of our children.
But most of all we pretend for our own sake
Because I'm too scared to see the truth.
You'd rather prowl the streets for teenagers
And have me die alone with the cats.
I don't know what I want.
But, when has that ever mattered?
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