In the Stillness of the Pew

When I look at a congregation that listens,

my mind is oft miles away,

anchored to storms the preacher can't calm,

adrift on seas the sermon won't sway.

I sit with the faithful,

but my thoughts scatter like seeds on barren clay.

The choir's voices rise like incense,

their harmony a ladder to some heaven I can't reach.

I see mouths moving, hands raised, eyes shut tight,

while my own heart aches beneath a silent breach.

Their prayers weave tapestries of hope,

mine unravel — a tangled mess I cannot teach.

The Word rains down, sharp as arrows,

aiming to pierce doubt, shatter despair.

But my mind is a broken window,

the message flies through, vanishing into thin air.

I am here, but not here,

a shadow seated, but lost elsewhere.

I ponder my troubles with a bowed head,

not in reverence, but in resignation’s clasp.

The pulpit calls for faith, for surrender, for joy,

but these feel like smoke I cannot grasp.

The promises of light feel distant,

as I wrestle with darkness no sermon can unclasp.

They say the church is a refuge for the weary,

a place where burdens find gentle release.

But my soul is a locked chest with no key,

sitting where grace and grief are meant to meet.

The pastor's voice fades into echoes,

and my silence becomes its own kind of defeat.

When the final hymn swells, I rise like a ghost,

feet moving, mind still ensnared in its chains.

I greet warm smiles with hollow eyes,

knowing I’ll leave with the same old pains.

They believe I listened, I belonged, I believed —

but my spirit wanders, caught in unseen rains.

©Bunguswa.™