can I call you God? or god? or what?
I am sick. My soul is sick and I am crushed.
Are you there? If you are, are you good?
Are you to be trusted?
Are you the one I should be looking for or do I wait
for someone else? something else? somewhere else?
How much does guilt, shame, blame
fortify this place of thick, impenetrable walls?
Am I wise or even smart to hope when all I see is
blackness; sorrow draped in the sickly posture of dreams forgotten,
of light full shaded?
Do not speak to me of Job like the others.
He is a fairy-tale, a mockery to me,
a dream of dust and ancient woes
far removed from this Halloween of hellish delight.
He does not speak anymore and,
unlike his, my book has an ending yet undecided,
murky, unmoving like a lake long dead.
Perhaps no ending will come at all?
Perhaps there is no book?
Picturesque dreams no longer peek into sleep otherwise uninterrupted.
A mind instead, in broken time, refuses better context,
mocking lost memories of what I once thought was life.
When a heart bitterly refuses whatever comfort felt like,
to what do I cling? Is this to be my rebellion? My condemnation?
Am I headed for hell because of these questions?
the questions are hell enough.
For what it’s worth,
help me through one more day, this day,
if indeed there still is such a thing.