Untitled

 

By Annabelle Ginter
 

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I see the banging on the walls

And I hear the cutting of skin

Whilst my friends scream with

Joy at the joke tactfully made,

The dread of knowing haunts my

Humor. They stand, acknowledging

Existence, but never comprehending

The terror, the horror, the black

Of simply letting go and feeling.

How can someone claim to believe in

Deities with all knowing and healing

With so many people in pain? I have

No doubt there is something that has

Granted creation and the breath between my

Lips, although my devotion of love

And praise is no longer in subscription

With every death and tear shed.