The Disjointed Church
I’m a foot
Cut off from its body
Learning to hear, speak
And shake hands—
To see through
All this darkness
—But my members are only
A memory of wholeness.
As I walk, desperately
I grabble for my kindred,
Who might realize that their
Foot is forgotten.
As silence lingers,
Lies actualize within:
“Grow cold. Go numb.
Preserve yourself.”
While anything sounds better
Than this lonely walk
From darkness to sadness
And hunger to thirst,
Maybe the hands,
Ears, and eyes
Grow tired of walking?
Maybe they’re getting cold too?