The Weed
You sit with your hands between your knees. In another time you would have been stoned. Instead, in this time, they simply stare. Judgement screams out in their silence. You don't belong here. You don't belong among their kind. They are the ones who have listened and heard. They are the ones who will be harvested as the wheat. You are a weed. There is singing from the loft behind you. As a child you would have shifted in your pew, turned and watched the singers. Your mother would have sternly told you to turn around. Now, you face the front of the church, if only to avoid the faces of those who knew you when you were trying to run away from God. How foolish. How do you run away from someone who knows everything about you. He has watched you enter the vile realms of this world and He has watched you stumble out. He knows you have failed at love and succeeded at lust. He knows you have sold priceless parts...