Faith

 

Faith is apparently the basis of all religion, 

arousing us, like the smell of stale milk

on cloth, or the silhouette of spring hanging

in air, heady with the scent of freshly cut grass,

screaming for help.

 

Childhood truths are dissipated 

by time and ordering, subsumed into multiverses

and endlessly entwined, parallel belief systems,

until intellectual concessions are birthed by possibilities,

and a need, to have answers.

 

It is sometime easier to suspend anxiety and suspicion,

adopt a faith, even temporarily, in order to place

discipline and comprehension,

on what is fundamentally beyond 

our simplest vision, or nightmare.

The child-Buddha squats on a seesaw,

and is happily ying-yanged,

with levitation and our imagination

as his only partner.

Reality, is a plump child

with no-one to play.

©Niall OConnor 2024