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A Heathen’s Prayer

Sydnie Brewster



A sharp-beaked kite

spreads his wings

to the still night, taking flight.


Below, a cathedral

arches toward heaven,

never reaching its goal.


Snowmelt foams, 

racing between jags,

surging from a tomb

of boulders and shattered glass.



On I wander,

a heathen finding solace ‘twixt trees.

I teeter at the edge of the rush 

and gaze to the heavens.

The breeze flings wings to stillness.


Crushed beneath snow

a crippled pine writhes,

tries to grow.

Broken, snapped:

I stumble on crumbled roots,

hands stinging from ice and stone.


I stand once more, 

then tumble to the ground.

Press on? No, relent.  

No sense resisting the torrent.

The cold pierces the sin.

The spirit flies to the unknown

as the body chars on its pyre.



Cacophony crackles into sterile silence.

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