[ as Occam's razor cuts into my veins ]

As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is relic, ritual I can't forget

Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I was born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.

It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind

There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your way of life, turns out, is a pretense.