by Gary Yoder

Before I sleep,
Before this dust returns,
Before I leave myself—
This temple curiously crafted,
Sculpted, and adorned
By hallowed hands—

What repentance,
What weeping would be worthy?
Like the publican,
To beat my breast;
Like the prodigal,
To return with no demands;

Perhaps to fold my hands,
In fervent prayer—
That when I sleep,
My prayer goes on.

Gary is a composer, writer, artist, and passionate lover of beauty.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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