Is This Your God

Slender beams of light enter, the darkened room, as I waiting kneel. Always supplicating, always cold naked and having been driven, here in the open, waiting my turn as I do, to hear your prayers every day of every year. Robed forms, wrought in shadows with their long staff's loom large, as dew and light white mist is sprayed into the air, Forming an opaque image in my mind, of being impaled on a spear made of gold. My confusion is dawning on God's, lovely face. I bow my head, swallowing each drop of his just to worship near you, in your zelous religious proximity close to him.