The monotonous hum and drum and the come
Together of our voices
To create a cultish culture of Catholics.
Speaking solemnly and spiritually
Of an invisible man
Of whom we put our trust in.
The singing silences and the whispers of children echo.
A baby cries and in the eyes of the mother is embarrassment.
The pews creak as the cries become shrieks
And the mother’s quick footsteps ping the floor
As the ambulance drives away and the screams become quieter and quieter.
The smell of incense swirls and curls up to the ceiling
Enveloping each and every one of us into the room of spirits.
The windows, reflecting like crystals, illuminate saints of the past
And the spirits dance across our face as the sun wakes up.
Our sanctuary is tinted with blood
And Jesus, nailed to the cross, is the heart of it.
They say this invisible man can, and has a plan
To come again.
To save us from ourselves.
But I can’t help but doubt what this is all about
And maybe religion is just a copout.
Because who wants to think that death is the end?