He of Little Faith

As the mourning dove 

clasps the branches 

of a barren fig tree,

his fingers fold tighter, 

tighter around my own.


Heavy were his sighs,

weary was his smile,

with his gaze

fine-tuned 

as the universe.


He spoke with the piety

of a schema monk,

the passion of a lion.

His words were gold 

and chrysolite, 

and built palaces 

upon Mount Zion.


A soul of glass,

both stained

and blameless,

as black

and white

as onyx.


Sweat drops

to the floor,

it pounds,

his face bare

from the blare

of seven trumpets.


Lo, he hopes,

“Come home,”

he mouths,

his eyes so still

and stolid.


But, oh, I know

his heart 

is cold,

and dry,

and grey,

and ashes.



--Alyosha Kartashov, 01/04/2025

Theme : Self, Others -- "Religious"