The Prayer

God of creation,

nightmares are flowers,

trees are nuns,

let lose the night,

spill gravels on paints, blurry.

as though we are made

for this kind of a time,

times made in winters and summers.

dear Lord

we didn’t count rosary

along with the sculpture

nor felt the empty sand,

we didn’t throw stones

high, up the sky

nor hoped to fall

back into our palms,

we didn’t taste our tongues

then raised it

to reach the gods

nor smacked our bangles.

beads weaved around our waists

as timer of our smiles, broke.

how light leaks roofing on the sky.

Mercy!  

spare us this one.