Chapels In My Head.

There's an ungrateful ache.

An impatient beat; between pulses of muscle there's a murmur, the subtle words of brooks and creeks, and it goes: we are not being seen.

Oh, it's furious.

My mind is gorgeous - I visit its chambers in wonder, I see its works speachless.

Perceiving God as the enclosure of power is electing one deity for each being, them both coinciding. We are the gods of our own limited worlds. We are the makers of existence.

I am, to myself, God.

Lately, I've found love for my religion.

Meet me: a priest.

Devoted and, therefore, negligent of other things.

Searching for those who will read my doctrine; those who will discover in me the divine scene we each hold within, and who will, bewitched, strive to see it.

See me.

For I am worth being seen, murmurs the brook.

I am the only thing to be seen, whispers the creek.

Before my birth, the world was dark. We are all our own lights.

Will no one come to worship?

Will there not be one single soul who peeks, willing, rendered, into my chapel?

Meet me: the only priest.

Irremediably inside my house of worship.

My religion resides within me.

My God dies with me.

I wish only for one devout. One person who will pray for me. One person who will see my light long after the chapel goes out.