I stepped into that old chapel
like a man steps off the road,
just to feel the ground
Light leaned through the windows,
soft as a tune
you don’t know the words to.
Dust hung there,
unbothered,
like it had time.
I wasn’t headed anywhere special.
Wasn’t running either.
Just moving
because standing still
asks for more
than I had.
Outside Latrobe,
the road had already let me go.
I’d been thumbing rides
from silence to silence,
from yesterday
to whatever showed up next—
my pocket empty,
my heart done arguing.
The pews were wood,
plain and straight.
They didn’t promise a thing.
I sat down anyway.
That’s what you do
when the world
keeps walking.
I said a prayer -
short.
Like a match
you strike once
and don’t shield.
Didn’t ask for bread.
Didn’t ask for luck.
Just said the words
and let them burn out.
Nothing answered.
No voice.
No light stepping forward.
God stayed quiet.
So did I.
But when I walked back out,
the road was still there -
wide, patient,
not caring who I was
or where I’d been.
And I thought,
maybe that’s grace enough:
to keep moving,
empty-handed,
with the door behind you closed
and the road ahead
still willing.
GBS jr
2018
0 Comments