can you spot the moment

in which hope becomes delusion?

when you were born,

despair found you

in your mother’s arms

and gifted you those

eyes

that see more

than your hands can hold.

you collected futures

like trading cards,

investing in dreams

that you slid

into little plastic sleeves.

but those markets can

crash.

when you were twenty-three,

you found god in a strip mall,

and you were consumed by

relief

waiting in a white-walled office,

while a clock hammered each

tick

into your skull,

you examined a painting

of your saviour

& found that he was drawn

in your own image.

you smiled because

god almighty had dirty blond hair.

sometimes worlds collapse

sometimes despair lays siege

until the temple falls,

turning men into martyrs

who impale themselves on certainty

to avoid the pain of desecration

or anticipation.

relief holds your hand in its tight grip

and whispers

that your sacrifice

has already been made

& in trade you’ve earned a world

over which

time

has no control,

when you were twenty two

you realized that

people shrink as they grow.

every time we get taller

the world gets wider

and we get smaller.

lucky for you,

god almighty has blue eyes

and looks to be about 5’10”

you found him

under flickering, fluorescent lights

when all you had

was $40 and a broken heart.

your ears rang with the hum

of electricity.

and you realized

that catastrophe

is the spark in the engine

that facilitates

your drive to salvation.

hope?

she asked too much of you.

claimed you ran her ragged.

like she’s not some crazy bitch

who became disappointment

whenever your back was turned.

you were too small

& the world was too big

to save.

you found god,

and he became your teacher,

with pink lips and a healthy BMI.

you learned what you deserved,

in this life and the next.

like a ship in a bottle,

you rebuilt the world

inside a

parable.

life is a lesson,

a textbook,

that sits three inches thick

on your shelf.

you avoid the image

of your saviour’s emaciated form.

The body, too, is a metaphor.

On the cross, his muscles bulge

to scare away doubt’s

infectious little ticks

that skitter

into despair’s open arms.

hope is greedy,

a hoarder,

with drawers full

of everything you’ve ever wanted.

she left you lonely,

listless, lost,

and despair is always waiting

to catch his children when they fall.

but god is a safety net,

with his palm outstretched

and his waspy, button nose.

you left hope’s dingy

little apartment

in favour of faith’s vaulted ceilings.

took your near-mint dreams,

lay them at god’s feet,

and in exchange he gave you

that certainty.