Written by Dagmar Morgan
my insides are not reliable
they are the leaning tower of pisa
or a steady decline
my faith sometimes is a maths equation
it has no proof
and i am not a good solution
my hands are not a fold
of prayer
they are two palms holding onto the wall
like i might fall from just trying to stand
but my eyes, He has made them drinking bowls
hot water and lemon
they are healed papercuts
my legs sometimes, are still two splinters
holding up a slanted wall
but i’ve heard, that with the right engineer
even pisa
has begun to straighten out
one slow inch at a time