Sanctimonious

Verse 1

At a rooftop party, I said it with a grin,

“I’m spiritual, not religious,” like I’d found some secret wind.

Glass of borrowed certainty, I lifted it too high,

Didn’t see the quiet scholars watching with their wiser eyes.

I wore a string of stardust like it counted as a creed,

Quoted clouds and half-heard mantras, called it all I’d ever need.

Didn’t hear the cloister’s echoes, didn’t smell the candle’s smoke,

Didn’t feel the ink-stained fingers turning centuries of hope.

Chorus

I said I’m spiritual, not religious, like I’d just invented rain,

With a halo made of hubris and a well-intentioned stain.

But there are books with broken spines that held the weight of doubt,

There are monks and mathematicians who have mapped a better route.

If truth has patient teachers, I’ve been talking over them—

I wore light like borrowed clothing, called it mine, and called it Zen.

Verse 2

There are footnotes in the margins of a thousand nights of thought,

Prayer beads like quiet metronomes that counted what I’m not.

Philosophers on winter floors, bent low to warm the flame,

Holy women, holy men, whose questions outlasted their names.

And me with my epiphanies, as thin as city rain,

Calling absence freedom, calling discipline a chain.

I was barefoot on the shoulders of the ones who learned to stand,

Naming mystery a shortcut, not the study of the land.

Chorus

I said I’m spiritual, not religious, like a banner in the sky,

But principles are heavy things, they don’t float when you deny.

There are bells that ring for centuries to wake the sleeping mind,

There are silences that teach us what our slogans leave behind.

If wisdom’s hewn from labor, I’ve been living off a loan—

I lit incense in a mirror and mistook it for a throne.

Bridge

Forgive the careless cadence of my lately borrowed light,

The sanctimony whispered in my “I, I, I” at night.

I don’t want to pluck the fruit and call it planting of a tree,

I’d rather learn the roots’ old names and sit with mystery.

Verse 3

Let me trade my easy answers for a slower, steadier flame,

Let me bow without a spotlight, bless the teachers by their names.

From the cloister to the campus, from the desert to the street,

All the maps that I dismissed now lead me to my feet.

Chorus

I said I’m spiritual, not religious—now I hear the hidden cost,

All the work of wiser pilgrims I reduced to fairy frost.

If reverence is listening, I will listen more than speak;

If faith is more than feeling, I will practice what I seek.

There’s a choir made of questions, there’s a craft to being true—

I will learn from those who labored, and be smaller in the view.

Outro

So I’ll put down my bright slogan, let it rest beside my pride,

Walk the long and narrow language where the honest wrestlers stride.

If the holy holds a doorway, I will knock with open hands,

And remember I am learning on much more deserving land.

I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows?. I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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