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Day Two Hundred and Fifty-Eight:  Something is off.

Undeniable evolutionary praying moments

Of time, it looks like time anyway

And so clasped hands, I guess, it was a moment all right.

At night, with us it was at night.  Our hands grasped

A grip behind our heads, in prayer we spoke together

For five minutes though, only five, in prayer.

Though worship is a silly thing, because I worship so little,

So few, so many people worship and I among them worship very little.

Is necessary?  Are we destined to worship to function as humanity

Develops around, in each and every silly moment, in every prayer,

Is there really a worshipping bone in our bodies?

Or do we grip each other’s fingertips in anticipation

Of a moment that is distilled with never coming,

Of continuously delaying its arrival so that when

We worship, or clasp hands, or close eyes and look inward

We are left alone, some omnipresent meditative state,

So when we speak those things in time of descent,

In times of clarity, of spirituality, of awakening,

In that monologue we find ourselves alone.

So prayer it seems is the most isolating of them all,

A moment of pure intent of self-ness, of one with one’s own,

Alone with your own, it would seem, among other worshipers,

And so why must we communicate so?

I too understand so little of what is above me, or below,

I assume a core akin to an apple, a burning juice below our feet,

So who worships what?  Do I look below for what I seek?

In the earth we must trust, and yet, I find myself…

Not looking down, or above, but inward, like any other,

Not searching for answers, or guidance, support,

But merely acknowledging that within myself I feel intent,

Want, curiosity, and crave experience.

So worshipping, in its truest form, seems to be honesty

For lack there a better time or place for it,

To be honest within prayer, “Prayer,”

Asking for something more than the superficial

Intents of common day mundane life,

As if bustling was not enough for us,

We seek something so much more,

Take this skin this pounding chest for

For…a grain, a grain in a vast world of other pleasures,

A twig among bold booming and blooming treasures,

We take our breaths as if they were just another on a long line,

No significance, but yet, we ask for more,

A reason, a purpose, a praying moment of experience, it seems.

Ah, worship, as if I would tell the moments I spend alone

With myself, in worship, of myself?  Is that not humanity

At its most purest form?  Honest to eachother:

And yet worshipping itself.

Promoting the human race, what is worth? What is life?

What are these questions?  Do we ask them within prayer?

We ask things as though the answer is just sitting there,

But it sits farther, you cannot search by sitting down,

And grasping,

The answers sit along a long road, that takes a lifetime it seems

And even then we don’t know,

So,

What it means to be alive? What it means to worship?

To take everything around like a grain, a twig, a breath,

Beyond importance, beyond intent,

Your two hands can build your life,

And with those hands you do what you can,

And give very little back.

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