Three

If there were signs and omens,
I missed them.
The particular disasters of my life
came without falling stars
or prophets.
There were prayers whispered
tin tangled against God's ear
through soup cans to distort them
so much so, that love became live
and that at least I did.
But this life is not the city
on the hill or even hell beneath
New Orleans, no it is a gradual
movement of nothing to nothingness.
Once I dreamed of miracles
white stave blooming and fallen
kings, but now I simply say
there are three parts of a soul
the one you hold, the one he holds,
and the one that you would give away
if you thought they might with
gentle words take it.
No, there were no burning trees or
red seas; no blood upon doors.
I have wandered waiting for you
to call me Lazarus from this tomb.