The Unbeliever never fully latched onto 

the Being that everyone else seems 

to follow, believe in, love. 

 

There’s always been distance, 

a road less traveled, 

between the two of them. 

 

It stretches wider than the horizon 

that never ends, and even despite 

that never-ending distance, 

the Unbeliever still latches—somewhat. 

 

Like sand on wet skin, the Unbeliever latches

onto broken fragments of faith 

that are not tangible yet remain

pointed to the touch. 

 

Today it was the lighthouse. 

 

It wasn’t even a real one—

the silhouette was just a sailboat, 

yet from a distance, it was a 

lighthouse. 

 

The Unbeliever believed, wholeheartedly, 

In the shadows and silhouettes of the distance.

 

If that’s faith, then then the Unbeliever is a believer. 

 

If that’s faith, then she is cleansed 

of any blood that Faith’s jaded edges

have painted across her. 

 

But she’s not clean, and she never will be. 

 

Because she so desperately wants 

to believe in something so much 

bigger than herself, 

 

but she can’t even place 

a drop of hope in

the lighthouse that was merely 

a shape in the distance. 

 

If the Unbeliever doesn’t believe in the lighthouse, 

why should the lighthouse believe 

in her?

 

Even if no blood 

remains on her skin, 

she’ll never be purified. 

 

She’ll always be a little soiled, 

a little tainted by her inability 

to believe in something as 

small as a lighthouse and as 

vast as the Being that Unbelievers

cannot see.