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“But all my life I’d remain a questioning man, choosing debate over faith, sparring with mystery, claiming logic over belief. But in the funeral parlor, the grief of seeing the shell of my mother’s body bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic, with her words, my god, my god, being stuck in my throat as I stood there, her broken son, preaching.” — Roger Robinson
But all my life I’d remain a questioning man,
choosing debate over faith, sparring
with mystery, claiming logic over belief.
But in the funeral parlor, the grief
of seeing the shell of my mother’s body
bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic,
with her words, my god, my god,
being stuck in my throat as I stood
there, her broken son, preaching.