burn it down:
the church of my childhood,
where incense burned my lungs
and whispers ate my tongue.
I carry a cross made of cinders,
my hands black with memory.
the pews are rivers of glass
and I am wading barefoot,
screaming sermons into my own chest.
candles melt into puddles of old hope,
their smoke drags along the ceiling
like the ghosts of ancestors
who never got a chance to scream.
I kneel in the ash cathedral
and worship the smell of ruin,
the splintered wood, the bleeding hymnals,
the holy filth that no one else
dares to touch.
outside, the world hums
in clean, polite tones.
inside, I am a priest of rubble,
a martyr for the feral,
chanting for the fire
that never forgets.
David A. Lee
David A. Lee is physician and an emerging poet based in Houston, Texas, whose work explores memory, human connection, and the liminal spaces between perception and reality. He holds a background in medical science and philosophy, bringing a reflective and inquisitive lens to his writing. His poetry draws inspiration from both contemporary and classical literature, emphasizing vivid imagery and emotional depth. His poems are forthcoming in Mobius, Euonia Review, and Unbroken Journal. David is currently developing a collection of original poems examining time, identity, and place.