God is Dead.
Appendages sport hollows
where we wrenched away our nails
and flew away from sin.
Now, we all fall down
and bodies merge and press and bleed-
warm flesh cut through careless contact,
skulls cracked when ideas clash.
A whirlwind of beliefs,
and no chapel for the vagabonds
to shield us from such a storm.
Instead, we tie ourselves to whole new crucifixes
and feast on false nectars as a refuge.
Sheperdless, we wander on through drought-dried land,
and the oblivious black-hole sky
consumes us with its ignorant eyes,
forever blind to our little pains.