by Marya Silva
Atheists laugh at the idea of sin
As they lie to their friends,
And steal to fuel their addictions:
Wolves plotting in the night;
For the perfect chance to strike.
I used to roam amongst the pack
Drinking, obsessed with greed—
Relaxed and shirking the soul
I’m no convert, perched on a throne
Touting moral superiority from above
I’m trapped, sheared with the masses
Likes blades of fresh-cut grasses
Flying when the wind blows; free
Landing and feeding life beneath:
Clasped hands consecrate love
A sacred light guides the doves.