So the pastor, the priest, the rabbi and imam.
They hold a certain package to their breasts,
bound with generations of blood, burnt flesh.
The package is similar, but the within,
now that is different. Each realizes
the other’s box is half full at best.
Nothing but centuries of wishes carved
into souls who poured their spirits out
as supplicants to heaven. For what?
In their souls, there’s nothing less:
the key to the universe, the unleashing
of eternal, infinite goodness.
Which makes the hollowness of lost souls
ring so much more deeply. They only wail
because God has left them frail, bereft.
#### Poet’s Notes ####
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