For the new 2 writing  Poetree Prompt
If you can’t read the poem above, here it is in larger form:

Tree of Faith

In
another ­­
country,
I could be beheaded
for what I most believe in.
Personal. Unique.­
A creative faith that rules my life––­­
religion an organic thing
grown from a communication
between my heart and mind to shade me.

No pews or choir lofts.
No creeds or ayatollahs or muezzins.
No pentecostal dunkings
or annointments
other than fresh falling rain.
No prayer stick more holy than a paintbrush.
No well-thumbed hymnal
declaring faith more clearly than my fingers on a keyboard
or my gooey glue pot or a frame filled with my art and thus my soul.
If God is the creator,
then what prayer could be more elemental
than one’s own creation,
reading like a holy book of who you are?
Where is that creation drawn from
other than that first creator of it all?
We are still in the process of being created.
Genesis not a book already written but the very lives we live.
Yet in another country, this most elemental mysticism of the self–
stated, is punishable by death.
Hide not your flame under a bushel unless it is necessary,
oh brother poet, sister artist, fellow fanner of a personal flame.
You have been branded in your country by that fire
that should cure.
In many countries, perhaps all,
there have come times when what is personal
must remain so for survival’s sake.
Yet what has seeded change is martyrs such as yourself,
facing 800 lashings, years in prison if fortunate,
crucifixion if you’ve drawn the short straw
picked for you by old men wanting never to be judged themselves.
In another country, this simple act of putting words like mine upon a page
enough to end a life for.
That old geriatric communal faith
being so fragile that letting one person have their own faith
might bring about
that
first
seed
of its
shadow.