Confirmation of conformity
Me squeezed into a too-tight, uptight, cassock-shaped mould,
Hold on – who am I?
Without wanting to wander into the hazy dazed realms of nostalgia,
I remember, I was someone else once.
Formation – anaesthetising the self out of me.
If I keep doing these things, your rituals,
If I stick to the prescription – “take twice a day before meals”
I’ll be formed.
Forged in the fire of the machine.
The machine fed on the same fuel as centuries ago;
Now I’m not saying there are no edges to be knocked off of me,
On the contrary,
I am a multi-faceted collection of rough edges.
I am too much
Too limited in knowledge
Too quick to judge
Too cruel to be kind
But maybe just one of these edges might cut through the s***
The same old that holds up the barriers
That stops people in their tracks
That acts like it holds all the answers
That controls power with white knuckles clenched
I don’t fit in
I can’t fit in
I won’t fit in.
Ruth Wells is an ordained Anglican priest and is currently serving her curacy in West Moors (Dorset) and part-time with the chaplaincy team at Bournemouth University/Arts University Bournemouth. She is a poet and is particularly interested in the theological connection poetry brings to heart and head.
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