I confess, Lord: I often feel like an unmade bed.
The unmade sits there. Used.
It's where I pray sometimes.
It looks alone. Looks messy.
My bed of prayers. Indeed,
My prayers are like tumbled blankets.
Stretched like sheets.
Sometimes cold. Like the flip side of the pillow.
Every now and then ripped. Holey. Holy. Torn.
Sometimes lying in the folds.
Washed but not necessarily tidy.
But, somehow, prayer remakes me.
So, instead of making my bed,
I lie down in it and pray.