MUSED Literary Magazine.

Wash Me Clean

Ann Christine Tabaka

Rain wash down over me
and sing away my tears.
I walk alone on whispers,
fragile as faith confronted.

The tension reaching out,
with languid fingers of longing
grasping at my throat.
Conclusions never complying.

Prayers go unanswered
floating on a sea of doubt.
The litany of lust prevails
devouring the holy with the damned.

I beseech the ancient ones
to rescue my true self
and let the rain cleanse
my desires with its song.