A bodiless faith, woven into whispers. It appears before sun-spoken odes from down below, making home to the ill and old.
His soundless words are laid in sin, in the space within, the gaps between eight holy ends. In peace, there’s no air to breathe in.
In a turbulence of still, his bodiless weight lays heavy on them, carried by a structure of matter-less men.
Count to ten before you begin to swell.
Volatizing minds that make them sole, water is lost, man is gone. A little more before their blood boils, forming bubbles from his bodiless words.
The maniac wrote and his words led. Doomed under the weight of his bodiless said, only he knows his heaven is hell.
People are caught falling.
They’ll fall once again.
Bodiless faith, rest away, my thoughts may reside here.
If you don’t see why you’re meant to believe, he won’t give up on his ways. For millions of years, they’ll be remains, drifting with the face of the same bodiless faith.
ALYAZYA 
once the holy books wrote us
into faith and freedom
into the embodiment of sacrament
soil meeting soul
now they write us out
sacraments manufactured
for soles to meet sales
the only remaining
scalpel piercing the bubble
of anesthesia is the tortured
contortion made visible
in the mirror of your art
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for sharing this!
LikeLike
Very true………
LikeLiked by 1 person
😊
LikeLike
I’m not religious but know a bit. But this poem is seamless. Amazing work
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Dave 😊
LikeLiked by 1 person
What do you mean by bodiless faith?
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s up to the interpretation of the reader
LikeLike
But what’s the author’s meaning? 😀
LikeLike
That private, I’m sorry
LikeLike
That’s all right, don’t apologize. Author decides what to answer or not when asked 🙂
LikeLike
👏👏👏👏
LikeLiked by 1 person