a feather at one’s nape:
amidst that cocktail of
sound
   sight
      scent
his piqued some part of me;
wafting, it beckoned
and stroked my core.

apples and undergrowth,
musk and earth,
bergamot and cardamom,
caramelized on bronze skin;
his was the incense of temples
a sanctuary
where I lay my devotion.

I, a hungry believer,
had never known I was starving
until I tasted him.

this godless child
woke to his voice of prayers collective
laugh of gongs resonant
smile of curling scripture
eyes of twinkling abyss,
limbs of undulating boughs
head-tilt of a pensive monk
and mind of tranquil pools.

alas, we heap upon them our adoration,
and wait
and wait
and wait
for the answered call
but I must’ve offered
to a stale shrine
for no echoed blessing
came back to me.

perhaps I neglected the doctrines
and in them may-be a by-line
that told of whom divinity favored.
perhaps the intoxicating calm
lulled me into piety:
blind, blind piety.
perhaps I wished for peace
from a merciful god of war
and called it love.
perhaps I was overzealous,
and to his avail,
worshipped him wrong.
alas, it is all but ‘perhaps’.

the pilgrim is restless - it took a spluttering of faith
to birth the darkness that allowed her to see
a glowing path
to her inner sanctum.