Lost Souls (Original Poem)

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I once walked with my Father every Sunday.
When other children filled wooden pews
listening to robed men and choral prayers,
I held my Father’s hand and we listened to the world.

He would let me choose a direction.
I liked South the best, if felt like going home.
On a rainy day, splashing in fire engine boots,
I once asked him if he was lost.
“We are all lost,” he replied solemnly,
“Everyone is just trying
to pretend
we know
where we are going.”

I didn’t quite know what he said,
but I knew what he meant.
Like listening to a Latin prayer,
you know its full of hope and mercy and doubt.

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Notes: A simple tale of figuring out this life, or at least being comfortable with not figuring out at all. I enjoyed placing the formal vs the informal, the organic lessons vs the ritualized ones. If anything, it reminds me to go on more walks and let the world speak to me instead of from someone else just pretending to have figured it all out. I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for your time and attention.

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