When I was a lonely boy,
I would sit on the stairway
that led to the door of my house
and look to the stars, high
above, wondering,
could there really be an
all-powerful anything?
The little book
under my bed, despite the
tape that held it together,
would tell me "yes" -
But what else could it say?
My dreams would speak to me
with memories of a forgotten past,
trying to correct that lie,
but it was not until
I was older,
with sixteen years on my back,
when a professor of mine,
world-worn and grey,
spoke to me of religion,
of holy words,
and of Carl Jung, who said,
"The dream shows the inner truth
and reality as it is."
That day I realised:
If the child within me
could still not believe in a pre-constructed god,
then perhaps
I would have to look for my own answers.
