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When faith often signifies conformity

When faith often signifies conformity,

The steeple points not to the sky,

But to the rules, the written lore,

The proper answer to the question, "Why?"

The flock moves as a single bird,

In feathers of a matching gray.

A solitary, questioning word

Is taught to fear the light of day.

The river of belief is channeled deep

In stone-walled banks, so straight and cold.

The wild, the wandering streams must sleep,

Lest their uncertain stories be told.

For doubt is not a growing seed,

But just a sin, a fracture line.

A bitter, unforgivable weed

In a garden meant to be divine.

But what of faith that walks alone,

That feels the storm and does not break?

That questions every weathered stone

For a more authentic truth's sake?

What of the heart that seeks the fire,

Not just the warmth the crowd provides?

That builds its own defiant spire

Where a truer, loner spirit resides?

So let conformity be the shell,

The hollow, painted, brittle cast.

But faith—the ocean's rising swell—

Is found when the lone soul holds fast.

Arrogance

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