This is a song I wrote a while ago. It's called Men's Breakfast.
As I sat by the wall both my arms felt like lead,
And the feeling arising could be spirit or dread,
As the pastor called out for his first volunteer,
To break out of the cage and to conquer his fear,
And it just made me question if I was the one,
Who should turn from the shadows to bask in the sun,
But my petals were withered and crinkled and dark,
And try as I might I could not find the spark,
But I'm wondering now whether that's what it means,
To stay on the bank, not to jump in the stream,
Well whatever it was I could not but hold back,
Whether spiritual revel or panic attack.
As the zealot beside me would mutter and sway,
I couldn't find sense in the things that he'd say,
His prayers and his tongues found me equally deaf,
They echoed inside me and fleetingly left,
As inside I'm hollow with nowhere to store,
The memories of mutterings made to the Lord,
But the question I'm asking that keeps me awake,
Is who was the phony, who was the fake?
The zealot, the convert, who fervently cried,
Or the doubt-filled thinker who silent abides,
Though with visions and tongues I've never been blessed,
Maybe this Godly silence is all but a test.
Caleb
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