Dear God

God,

I am weak.
Let me confess that first,
even though I know
you don’t care,
because I feel the need
to be accountable
to my Father
for all the wrong
I’ve done.

And I come to you
to ask: why
do so many
claim hell
is happiness?

No.
That is but
one more sin
of mine,
to look out
of my windows
and see the mobs,
dancing half naked
with their breasts bare
and red
with wine,
and bleached
by the moon
like skeletons.

…Can’t I just come home?

No.
I need to go out there.
I need to stay here.
I need to not say a word,
and cry out all at once.
I need to love
but do nothing
to stop the raving
on my lawn.
I need to keep
dreaming of clear pastures
and my Father’s arms,
of babes and family,
and my clean fresh Mother
ready to frolick
as we all did
as children.

But there’s dead
on my lawn.

They don’t even know.

And God…
I’m weak.
They’re pounding on my windows,
with splayed hands.
I need to let them in
but they don’t know.

No,
they know.
But they don’t care.

And yet I care
so much.

God…

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