and a hard place

with fingernails
barely long enough
I scratch few words
on the wall
of the chapel I visit
when night time
makes me wait for dawn
and I almost lose myself
making up constellations
that fit the clearest night skies
but always fade
when the first ray breaks through

how many moons
grew and shrinked
while I sat against this sand stone
a saint’s only home
leaving the same name
or a phrase or two
meant for all
who find what is
now decorating
something holy
with impure hopes and dreams

I do not follow the books of prayer
I write in the blank spaces
with these words I carved
into their walls
connecting dots
cracks and loose bolts
time claims over and over again
forming a trail to follow
a path not for a deity
but those bound to love

I exhale fog
when my finger tips
finally graced open
leaving some shade
on the black and white
of moonshine shadow
painting the late afternoon

my breath
it glides along
the cold hard rock
and uneven dents
slowly dissipating
until it flows
and leaves erosion trails
of it’s own