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Poetry

Quiet Prayer

Rupert Loydell

Quiet prayer

It was not a quiet prayer. When it came, it was wrenched from him, in anger or pain, possibly both, but it was definitely a shout not a whisper, was certainly something directed at god, certainly heartfelt and demanding, absolutely sure of its reasons and concerns. It was not a quiet prayer, it was a scream of grief ripped out of the night, pain from hearing the worst. It was primal and personal, a shout about being alone and not knowing what to do, a request for a compass, a map and survival rations. But mostly a demand for love. It was not a quiet prayer and it whispered its way around the village, out into the world. Elsewhere, on their knees, others were shocked at the raw hurt, the need; took prayer upon themselves, spent time begging for mercy and pleading for his soul. It was not a quiet prayer, it was prayer nourished by dissolution and despair, a loud eccentric mash-up of energy and anger, questions and desire, despair spun loose into the world to see where it would go and if anyone would answer.

 

Rupert Loydell