Eleven

Eleven approached like a stampede,
left and right running over the second hand of time
at a breakneck speed.

I wept as hands moved their shadow over one and one,
eleven o'clock, knock knock,
silence outside. A shroud-
Marching to like happy sheep,
entering in like howling wolves.

I stand, they notice,
I breathe.
I love.
I breathe.
I leave.

(This story always comes in reverse order.)

The echo pretends it doesn't exist,
pale eyes ahead of my reach.
I look around me.

(Tick tock…)

I enter the worship center's chattering hall,
all at once an involuntary noise
and the dance begins.
Well over 300.
Idle clamber.
Life's clattering.
Teeth chattering.
I ask the silence,
the prayer inside,
in or out, you decide.
Booths lined walls of the noisy hall-
coffee, snacks, books for sale and CDs.
Worship yet to begin.

So, so, so, so, so many voices at once,
sound hadn't a chance, thump thump...

Now in the fellowship church,
voices more muted, distant,
anticipating the entrance of the Spirit,
I begin my search.

Sound check. Lights rise.
Words on the wall overhead.
Psalm 105.
Eleven strong- guitars, drums, piano, voices fly,
and no mention of the (H)eartH.
No mention of the Garden just yet.
No mention of our foul noise put to rest.

Standing, standing for an, as of yet, invisible purpose.
To praise, to sing of God's holy name, to worship?

Words spoken, "The church was made for Jesus.",
followed by, "Why do we believe?",
and with that question a silence finally came,
a gift.

Short lived.

Video start.
Check the noise level.
Done.
Continue.
Attention paid
to a polished production value.

"Woman, women, learning", she said.
"Community," he said.
A discovered expression,
no speech on repression,
no depression
or worship's conscious oppression,
and no mention of the (H)eartH.

Lights dim. Prayer.
Music begins.
Drum, drum, drum.
Humankind’s thrum.
Drum, drum, drum.
O, but they believe!
Believe in their worship
worn on their well pressed sleeves.

O, let your fire fall down, he said.
O, let your fire fall down on us.
Fall down, fall down, fall down.

No. No. No. No.
No fire that burns eternal.
Don’t believe it stands a chance.
Not a chance at raging over Love's glance,
no production value to agony's dance,
and no mention of the (H)eartH.

Boom boom...

© 2013 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime