What is faith in my clouded ways?
How can I pluck reflections out of that George Michael tune?
Who is there to fall upon when all of our chests boil with cynicism?
What is there to grasp at when there is no hand from the heavens that reaches?
It is Andy washing my clothes and calling it symbiotic,
Vivian’s charity of caffeine and an unwashed bowl
McKay pausing my rhetoric, questioning my righteousness
Adrian assuring me of beauty and my deserving of more.
What is faith but reaching out one’s arm to nothing,
A presence less than a mosaic breeze or a bird’s solemn song,
Yet allowing our limbs to persist in the perpetual hollow,
To not an ounce of affirmation by a graze or a sound.
Emily Tschetter is a student at the University of Montana and is studying journalism and political science. She is a dedicated cellist, poet, activist, journalist, and constant objector to bullshit. She is fascinated by the world around her, and implores everyone to participate in the world around them and help everyone navigate the oppressive systems we face together.
