Lead Me Not

I have grown accustomed

to the calling

of the chanters...

and

the sweet song of the choir boys

in their rustling cotton robes

heads bent low above

their candles

casting halos

that turn bored adolescent

faces into

angels of the night.

I am a product of sweet irony

a soul shattered monster

seeking shelter beneath

the cold stone

of a chapel dedicated to

gods I've discovered could not possibly

exist.

One modern author who builds Monsters

like me

dreamed up a situation that led

her characters to question

"What if there really is a Hell...and they don't even want us there"

I say to them, and to her, and to You

this is the hell

this questioning and waiting

for a better explaination.

I have grown accustomed to the

call of the chanters...

and I echo each and every word

the choir sings

and sometimes say a prayer

because as sure as this is Hell I've found

there's Heaven still out there.