I wake up early on Sunday mornings
and I whisper my confessions into my tea cup

My prayers written in poetry of those I've loved and those I've left.
I water the plants and weep. I wander through my hallways in silence to examine the art like a fine gallery.
I speak to the spirits that dance in the smoke of my hand rolled cigarette. And then, I dance.
This is my church. My home is my temple, my body, the altar.