What a fickle thing.

The very word divides us into corners, into nations, into groups as stubborn and torn asunder. Reactionaries to a cause and call for arms, but never stopping to ponder the what if...What is faith?

Does faith includes these promises of an old man in rags, or hermaphrodite angels in drag, or 99 virgins waiting w/ wanting arms. 

All call, all yearning for you. Why? Why is this accepted, is it true?

Is it just me in my cynicism and need for something more. For something true. Faith is salve for the soul, but then why does mine still burn and yearn. I awake crying to the memory of a fluorescent babies haunting tune. Don't forget me it says...my inner child begging me not to let it die. 

But does faith allow for such things...inner children and glimpses of borders far beyond our own. The grey matter between sleep and awake. 

Or is it you w/ your complacent heaven and perfect view. Follow the light they say...follow, follow, follow. Be a happy sheep. Be fervent in your belief. We'll see our loved ones returned to us and prosper. Those unfortunate...may God have mercy on their souls. 

As endearing and sweet, a part of me thinks...I'm always thinking...there is no such thing as the perfect view. Why can't we all see the light at the end of the tunnel. (or maybe the darkness in our own personal caves) Why can't we all be. Why all the hiding and prescribing. Let our imaginations guide us as we walk blind. 

I imagined faith in a 100 different ways. Faith for the dying mother w/ lost children gone too soon. Faith for a country lying in ruin. Faith for the hungry yearning for bread. Faith for the gaping emptiness in man. Faith for all of our woes and happiness soon to end. Faith in walking away from home, hoping to return again. Faith for the soldier in arms, faith for our country and cause. 

Faith myriad in its form. Older than all the songs ever chanted, words ever spoken, and dances done. A hope in a presence more powerful and merciful, than ourselves. 

A impression dawns on me; the sunlight on my wintery morning. The blowing of shimmery frosty delight, that slowly freezes with a caress. The world speaking in it's paradoxical way. The faith of a new day. A rosy sheen that colors my daydreams and amplifies my thoughts. 

I imagine closing my eyes and waking from sleeping. 

Dreaming all things anew.