The craggy teeth of God.

Her voice is weak

dwarfed in the presence of this madness.

Will a whisper at the top of her lungs register

on cosmic instruments -- Celestial Richter scales?

When at long last

the end has come

settling on; the many faces of angelic beasts,

the broken backs of strong men.

When goodness returns

clothed in blessed eternal skin,

 and cumulonimbus robes,

flanked by a wide eyed horde,

and an army of which she had dreamt she'd be a part,

her deepest fear is not the descending horror.

It is neither fire nor raging torment

not even eternal death.

No.

Her soul turns cold before clouds that depart.

A new heaven and earth swirl into being.

Birth pangs of a new reality.

While her souls learn the wretched hell of His departing countenance

The loss of the Son.


How did Thomas doubt and Peter betray when they stood so close?

Are we yet so far from God we do not know our Father by sight?


She is crying, Lord! Can you not hear her?

Will you not act? Not move to save your bride?

If you are unmoved by her desperate chorus

Why would you bend to the off key cracks

of the likes of me?



I may be a fool

Dancing on the shoulders of more clever fools

But so I shall be

On the off chance you'll pause

And remember:

You promised.