By His hand

Prompt: Fingers
Form: Prose poetry
Device: Assonance

Your love creates. Your fingers shape. Your breath brings us to be. We are born the same: adorned with love, mind so innocent, soul so pure. We are born to love and have faith. Our prayers used to be short: simple words of “Bless my daddy and mummy and me. I love you, Father. Amen.” How hopeful a prayer.

Days pass by: day after day after day…

Our love strays. Our fingers bring gain. Innocence fades away. Our eyes are open, blinded by earthly love. Our minds mature, our souls hurled aside. We live, but are no longer alive. We become richer yet our poor spirits decay. Our prayers no longer prayers, but checklists of mundane desires. How empty a prayer.

This is my prayer: Father, I implore you. Teach me love. Teach me faith. Make me all but a child again. Amen.


Featured image: Photo by Torpe (CC BY 2.0)

About the post

My works, Writing 201

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