rosary & ashes – a flicker of doubt

hiding – unmasked under an avalanche of progress there was no saving the unsaved. until now it had escaped me, this mystery built within effervescent dreams. who was the dictator. who was the builder. a question mark fails to be for this isn’t about that, or this, it has to do with these blank verse visits that permeate a pinhole and bloom beautiful. cut thorns from those bandages. it was a green cargo box filled with dirt that promised salvation. thinking back, whose voice was it that kept me running.

Don’t ask…I’ve really no idea other than it is a snippet into a dream that kept me entertained sometime during sleep. It had escaped memory until I was reading Christopher Hitchens’ Mortality, just a bit ago. Curious, reading chapter 2, his thoughts on cancer and the futility of faith, and this dream resurfaces between lines regarding blasphemy and prayer (left hand of the page). Then it disappeared. Turn the page, it came back again, green plastic box – perhaps a cargo hold – hiding on the inside.

Hitchens, whom we all know has since left this life, was of a brilliant mind. His book chronicles without apology his bold refusal to die quietly under the comfort of a god’s blessing. He has me laughing. He has me crying. He has me remembering a sweet man whom could have written these matter-of-fact pages in the face of cancer’s spreading hand. He and I sparred religion until the bitter end. Funny how I’ve come full circle, no longer believing in written salvation. Sadly, he is not here to tell me how it all ends.

Pacing a surgery room recently – a Catholic, an atheist, a waffler, and a brother without declaration – we hashed the purpose of prayer. Poor souls seeking solace around us, no words were minced as I declared that there was no purpose of prayer if this life’s death is mapped before conception. Brother decried, “why, you’re a Calvinist!” Is that it, I thought it was an original thought of a realist…

Tonight, east winds howl through cheap windows as pinks start to add contrast. No matter how many times a match strikes, the flame fails to ignite insides. Somewhere there is another room with a window that explores a visage painted in black, illuminated in white. Someday it may open. I wonder if it will before midnight’s rosary and ashes meet. 

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