I disbelieve. I do not go to church.
Except, and this is strange, sometimes I do.
I go into the building, on a search
For something that I felt when just a boy,
The sense, perhaps of solemn dedication,
The sense of sorrow wrapped in promised joy,
Maintained through centuries of aspiration.
I bow my head, a gesture of submission,
Not to what I believed in as a youth,
Nor yet in token of some deep contrition,
But rather in acceptance of a truth:
That in this changing world, we give our best,
Then hope it's good enough to pass the test.
