Prayers Move Poem by Richard Jarboe

A woman falls to her knees,
Her fingers like spears to the sky,
In a breathless whisper, she lets the prayer fly;
It's all about trust,
God's invisible, we're made in God's image,
So what's that make us?

Some say prayers are for slaves, pickpockets and thieves,
She thinks prayers are a beacon for what a believer believes.
Some say those who pray are fools,
In mechanics of prayer where are the tools?
Scattered between sermons, dragons, prisons or prophets?

How many mysteries do you understand?
What criminal magic have you?
What kind of threat are you to your accusers?
While being erotic, what do you do?

Breaking loose from maniacs can be hard on the ears,
But some maniacs are just caricatures.
Prayer can penetrate canon fire and dying,
A metamorphous to revelation without even trying.

Not by way of the intellect, but rather intuition,
Not through what you get from superstition,
But as an ordinary woman speaking common sense
Aware of impiety with no history of pretense.

There are heretics whose chatter dilutes the prayer,
And she's had her share of hypocrites who prosper everywhere.

Yet the prayer continues its ascension to the stars
As the lower ranks remain below searching for centers.
So the prayer is not lost, the prayer resonates the drum,
Of those who listen, traceless from where they come.

They say outside the church there's no salvation, still the prayer will rise,
Above the broken treaties to a thinner mix in the skies,
The last obstruction to the hope of the prayer
Is the Beast who smothers the land,
Like a phantom in an unholy nightmare, a gatekeeper on demand.

But the prayer, like a breath warms the inner soul,
Don't worry about the prayer, it's indestructible.