atheist excerpt

The room is cloud of smoke
Of smell of sweet, incense
Of song and voice, of prayer
The priest lifts his hand across
Four children kneel beside
And heads are bent in prayer

I do not speak.
My throat is tightly closed
And mouth is drooped and old.
I stand alone, the heathen
In black boot and bare head
University coat.
I have not the faith, nor hope.
There is only dead
And that is all, and on a bed.

They huddle around with
Eyes closed and hands clasped
lips moving in prayer.

(To the ceiling boards and windows shut
To the plaster coated peeling wallpaper.)
I stare down
Bare, alone, forsaken, free.
I was a boy once
And believed tales and rime
Father used to take me there
And hold my pilgrim hand.

How different it is now!
Now, I understand.
Perhaps. That there is really nothing more
Nothing less.
And all is false but pen and knife.
(and vodka pot, and dirt.)
They shall all die poor
And heedless cries to god
Yes, in the street and begging bread.
(That is too my fate, no doubt)
Unless men can end this sty
And overthrowing, breaking all that held
Yes, destroying those petty kings
And conquering all those castles
Adored, and worshiping.
Blood, and breaking glass.