Burial of Faith

embodied,
the slack-handed joy-wracked
throes of jealousy,
slipping through the
stands of trees,
encircle our
faith's cemetery,
our hope for green-faced
inalienabky chaste
sisters of greed
drinking Onan's seed
(Oh how they choke)
who fail to make
the mistake of taking
truth too seriously.
Wy can't these throes
see our faults and fissures
that quake our souls
and shake our goals
are possibilities?
Until we flee
the burial of faith,
crack those slack hands,
learn to doubt
all that's green
we can never be free.

by Jason Paul Fox