eighteen

God, father in heaven,

Where are you?

My soul is prostrate. Bent and shaken,

my pillars crumble under the weight of illusion.

A lion appears in the distance

I remember its mane and yet not its demeanor

I am afraid. I hide.

I seek shelter but

the temples are in ruins,

the forests are on fire

Am I running from you, O Lord?

Am I running from myself?