The Religion


I awoke each morning to pray, no one answered.

An angel perched on my shoulder, snickered like a demon

but giggled a hymn I wished to know.


The next day, no one was there.

The angel returned, perched on my headboard

slouched forward like a gargoyle. “Try again,” she whispered.

Too impatient for morning, I sat up in my bed.

Shadows splattered my ceiling and the lights flickered till burnt.

Small claws dug into my shoulder like needles and a voice whispered:

“Those who believe do not wait.”

More needles plunged into my back, pushing me





I awoke to silence: no hymns or giggles above my bed.

No one should ever explain why a religion is dead.


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