God in the attic,
God breathing like a thousand wings inside the
confinements of your head. The hollowed out
manic ache of it all, a yearning unfathomable
to return. Sky-bidden, sky-born, earth-bound as the
clay you came from.
Beloved, beloved, beloved, howling to a sky that remains empty, remains chaste, unfeeling.
Is there ever such a presence as this?
Is there only the peace of all the nothing, the endless cries, the ache down between
your ribcage, demanding price upon price?
God unending, unencumbered, weightless, presence unfelt.
What hand will now you hold?
Wings that are no longer wings, an empty aching screaming space,
Wings that were once but now no more,
Only now an outline, only now a space.
God in the attic,
Folding up your wings.
