We are like a religion.
We, the tired ones. We,
the middle of the night ones.
We, the howl at the moon ones.
We, the aching.

Our bodies are like prayers,
like a pair of hands held out,
waiting for the rain
to come and fill them.
We, these burned bridges.
We, these altars.

If God is gone, then we are our own churches.

We, the abandoned. We,
the holy, arching like
the gates of heaven, finding
forgiveness where we used
to find nothing.

If God is gone, then maybe he
has hidden the light inside of us.

We, the hallelujahs.
We, the amens and the
amends.
We, the dirges.
We, the absolutions.