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Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2271733
Just wish one knew for sure...
Grew up with church on Sunday--
twice, actually, because I went
to the high mass at the other church
with my grandmother and great aunt.

I've read every word in the Bibles,
I've read several different versions.
I know much of it is parables wrapped around
truths. I know it was written by men.

Men with agendas to control
the populace, to convince the
the heathens they conquered.
Assuming one could read:

it was forbidden to the common folk.
The secrets must be kept only
to those who were in charge.
And yet, through all, that thread shimmers.

I grew up believing in heaven,
the angels, Jesus Christ, and the Father.
Older now, or perhaps, I should admit, old,
I find myself wanting to know for sure.

The priests and ministers preach faith--
that utter belief without proof, that
knowing without actually knowing.
I remember being told how we'd see loved ones again.

Now that I'm the only one left
I want to believe that so badly.
Thing is, once you are dead,
if it isn't true, you are just dead.

And you won't know. Unless
you do, but even still...

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