Palm
Sunday
The
church is dead now.
Dead
to me, anyway.
The
final nail through my hand:
The
stale palm cross in my
Passenger-side
visor.
Though
I still sing Hosanna
In
the highest.
And
I still praise and worship;
And
I bow my head,
While
on my knees.
Regardless,
I’m helpless to lament:
Why
hast though abandoned me?
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