Where does the junkie go when his fix is holy?
What do priests pray for in the dead of loneliness?
When God has abandoned all hope and there is only an echo in nothing amongst stars,
or the lack thereof.
We are a weak and death prone race of liars and visionaries.
All to our own poisoning flock in cascading regularity.
We sit frowning at the godhead for something more impressive or relevent;
blind entirely to whatever it was was the point of this.
Like mad cattle affixed to an ever growing field of just enough nourishment.
Never beyond what mad men dream is actually the grass or sun or love before slaughter.
But enough for us to ignore and feed liars.
Enough for the lie to become our grass our sun our love.
I pray for fire;
nothing is always better than the pretense preceding.