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.

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