Liar, I thought, kneeling with the others, <br />how can He love me and hate what I am? <br />The dome of St. Peter's shone yellowish <br />gold, like butter and eggs. My God, I prayed <br />anyhow, as if made in the image <br />and likeness and him. Nearby, a handsome <br />priest looked at me like a stone; I looked back, <br />not desiring to go it alone. <br />The college of cardinals wore punitive red. <br />The white spine waved to me from his white throne. <br />Being in a place not my own, much less <br />myself, I climbed out, a beast in a crib. <br />Somewhere a terrorist rolled a cigarette. <br />Reason, not faith, would change him.<br /><br />Henri Cole<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/white-spine/
