I sought redemption in a holy book,
But each false shepherd wore a polished look.
Their gilded words turned ashen on my tongue,
So I walked outdoors where wild truth sung.

The sky was bruised with a fading fire,
The sun sank low like a spent desire.
No choir sang—just the crow’s cracked scream,
And it rang more true than the holiest dream.

A dandelion pierced through the graveyard stone,
Its roots drank deep from the marrow of bone.
Is this salvation—a feral ancestral rite,
Life mocking death with a merciless bite?

I knelt by the river where bottles caught the sun,
Their green glass glared—wounds shining, undone.
The water ran sullied, yet still ran clean—
A paradox radiant, raw, obscene.

The wind absolved me without a word,
No doctrine spoken, no sermon heard.
It scattered my guilt like fallen leaves,
And I laughed at a grace the earth still weaves.

So if redemption comes, it won’t wear white—
It slips through the branches, it hides in blight.
In the weeds, in the ruin, in all things flawed,
I found the face of a broken god.