Sentries search at midnight for your streak for a little reality to their faith.
The moon, she has forgotten to believe in you. i see her now taking a drag to relieve herself of being extraordinary. Waxy bubbles
of cigarette fumes motionless patch the sky, i can almost taste her anguish.
[Are you there? People around me question too much, skipping religions (or none)
i can't explain the reasons for my faith nor can provide the proof.
But its there, in my head
The religion is my root. It's the concrete on which i build my plans.