The Plea of a Sinner
A Lyric Essay
The rumble of a Hail Mary like black and blue thunder.
73 books of half-truths, myth, and fable that so many claim can lead one on towards St. Peter’s graffiti-gilded-gates. Too bad they wrote pretty words and say them all wrong. I guess you can find a truth in that book; so long as you squint past the brimstone sentiments and catch the hallowed meanings in-between the gaps of mortal writings that reach ever onwards for perfection.
Someone rang church bells today and, unlike the good sinner I am, I didn’t listen to the tolling telling me to stay at home. Didn’t hear the metal rattle like the warning of a diamond-backed snake. No, today I stood beside the fearful faithful and tried to feel something other than lies. I was offered a Rosary and even though I know they thought it a lifeline all I saw was a noose in their hands. I turned it down. Didn’t want the beads to draw blood from my throat. While they counted, I instead gripped my own wrist like I could wring answers from it.
The temple walls of concrete, glass, and iron harmonize above and beside us all. But all I want is the sound of a piano, the creek of a rusty lock, the wind through pines, or even real sky-born thunder. I want to feel the results of creation around me. For those things bring me true comfort when looking on the Grim One’s face. Those beside me believe they will pass on to god’s kingdom, that they will join God in his holy house. I’d rather run off his back porch and into the evening. I’d rather return to the stardust that becomes all things. I’d rather slip this mortal coil and sleep.
If I make it to the pearly gates, I will weep weary tears. I will spit in Peter’s face and tell God to keep his eternal life and to spread my spirit like my atoms back where they both belong: amongst all things growing and burning and changing. Let me be like a star, let my being be a single light always destined to burn out. I will not be forced into an endless epilogue singing the praises a God who can’t be bothered.
When it’s time. Let me be. Let me die. Let my story come to an end. I am in no rush, but I already know that it’s been a good one.
Good enough for me at least.