All I know is despair,
and hope is a fleeting
ray of sunlight at the end
of a tunnel I’ll never leave.
Trust me.
I want to believe, I want to see,
but there’s something deep
inside my soul that keeps me
from becoming free.
I could call it my thorn,
my divine crutch
given me by a god
that doesn’t care that much.
A god I’ve been told
is truth,
and light,
and love—
while at the same time being told
that it’s not enough to cleanse me—
a wretch, a rag, a blemish on perfection.
A stain on the canvas
of a world headed in the direction
of hell. Of separation. Of sin.
Oh God why didn’t you stop them?
This thought:
that God could have intervened,
has honestly not crossed my mind,
because to me it seemed
this deity removed from the world
was the real thing.
And all other attempts to paint him anew
was misdesigning a god that’s imagined,
led around, with no Son shining.
And there’s nothing
more than me pining now
for the real thing which I’m afraid
that I’ll never know.
I’m a modern-day David with so little hope.
A modern-day Solomon with recycled tropes.
Meaningless, meaningless,
everything is meaningless.
The transition’s complete, it’s been seamless
I once was lost,
but now I’m…
alone.