My religion isn’t really a religion. It’s a hodgepodge of ideas from other ways of life with the stuckupedness of a full blown moral creed.
I don’t always practice. Because sometimes there is no way I practice. Sometimes I don’t need it. Sometimes I do.
Sunday I will be religious. Not because it is Sunday, but because it’s a full moon. Oddly, I think this nod to paganism is less offensive then the closeness to sunday brunch after wooden pews.
I’m supposed to let things go. Let go of the pain I’ve been hoarding. Give it to the moon. Let the moon harbor the wildness.
The pain is mine, and I’ve always had problems sharing.
I’m supposed to light it on fire.Let it burn, turn to ash, and start over.
Let something new in, something good.
The things I let in started off good. You don’t buy spoil food.
I’m suppose to let in new, over old.
Let go of what I understand for something I don’t.
I guess if you only know pain, that isn’t a scary thing.
You aren’t afraid of what is lurking in the moonlight.
I live a comfy life, void of darkness and moon shadows.