I’ve learned that Hell is just the absence of God,
All darkness and no light.
But there is no word for your absence.
Lonely, vain, idol, perhaps?
I’ve been walking the world mute unable to tell a soul
How much I love you.
My heart has acclimated to your deafening silence
So that I hear your laughs, cries and songs everywhere I fall.
My vision is distorted—one eye sees the present and the other
the past—deceiving me to believe that you’re really standing there in front of me, even though the hues are as though a child tried coloring on black-filled sections and outside the lines.
I don’t even know what mercy looks like anymore.
So what do I call this? What do I call a life that was but is no more?
I can’t even recognize where I am to make an effort to escape. Like a sinner who’s found refuge in Hell contemplating its concepts and existence.
Hope is frail, but I believe in love and resurrections; and so I’ll continue to water these dead flowers of ours.