.
I wanted to worship.
I stepped into an experience—
fractured, crawling,
wounded beneath the music
They stood while I sat,
their eyes closed in reverence.
Mine stayed open.
I feared id cry if I closed
And then I saw them—
white and orange flags
rising, falling
precision and poetry in flight.
The sky bore patterns I knew,
etched like memory
in the air.
Art,
in someone’s hands.
And my tears,
they dried.
There
he stood.
The master of movement.
his chisel-cut teeth,
a beard streaked with color,
hands that spoke healing
without sound.
For a breath of time
I wished to be a flag,
to be led,
to fly
in his rhythm.
And God knows
I would have worshipped.