Feral

They prayed to God for understanding
asking him
for a Deus-ex-Machina in their lives
whether it be by terminal ultimatums
in Armageddon
or by the slightest touch
of a feather sleep tight die well
go for good.

They insisted
in listening to the sway of pigeons
high above
wondering if such a remarkable visage
could the omen
of something worse
a prodigy of hieroglyphs
feral children of witches
waiting for their turn
to burn
their ashes like incense
carrying their prayers way up
hoping they rained over God’s head
hoping he didn’t open his umbrella.