A Happy Grave

The grace of a pulsing migraine on the Sabbath
Bible-clutching, moral-searching
Heads down, hands pointed to the sky
With bloody hands and a fishy smell

Prayers muttered under alcoholic breath
Grin or a grimace
Sparkling white teeth crooked and gold-filled
Never enough coins to put in the offering bag

Children blessed with sterile truths
Distilled and too perfect like a well done sum
Brain a rotten heap baking in the sun
Redeemed by their tribe, glowing on their little pedestal

Spit in the wine and water, swords crossed at the heart
Break the bread and through blindness we tread
In blind faith we trust, in blind happiness we live
Amen

Uncertain