In the Clouds

I only pray
As the wheels of the plane
Lift off the ground.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God;
I don’t. That’s not the point.
It is the appearance of comfort.
The quickening unease coils in my stomach,
Banished from my body as I repeat well-worn words.
They’re scars written behind my eyelids,
They’re soft spoken security blankets,
They’re a ritual I cannot break.
The day I don’t consider those words
As the engines roar next to me,
That will be the day that God fails to catch me.
Even if he never existed.


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