A poem I wrote four years ago, towards the end of my process of deconversion.
The road leads through the woods
Concrete and lazy and placid
To the city and its thousand saintly sleepers.
But for me is the undergrowth
Where the roots are gnarled and deep
Where the wind howls and the owls weep
In hollows dark as night
Where the trees reach for the stars
And, failing, fling their shadows upon my brow.
A sparrow speaks of a clearing nearby
But since when do birds speak in tongues?
Eli, eli, lama sabachthani.
Better wild and free and lost in woods eternal
Than bound to gilded rites and creeds of stone.