Altar

I kneel before an altar of dreams,

muttering in a foreign language

that weighs heavy on my tongue.

A thousand prayers lay silent,

trapped behind gnashing teeth—

the salty sin of being,

staining the window of my soul,

through which I will look to the hills,

while I, a broken thing, wait

for beauty to come riding on the wind

and build itself, piece by peace,

from the debris of my hopes:

a home inside my heart,

wisdom in my words,

and poetry in my pen.

©Marcel