deliberate obfuscation and feigned ignorance,
mean-spirited christ huggers
and misogynistic men of god.
My cup of faith is empty
to the bone, flesh baring
vulnerability and I can't find
a foothold, foundational faltering.
I grope for answers in the haze,
caress the empty air, but find only
steps of fog and walls of water,
fun house distortions
and runaway trains.
The North Mode points to the promise
and beyond my clouded vision
I search the sky for word.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2018