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What can I do? Pray?
Sadness - immense and vast.
Silence is dense and gray.
The skyline is overcast
with sadness. It swells and bursts
and overflows the drains.
Silence can’t quench my thirst, -
sadness alone remains.
I drink it with slow sips.
My eyelids are tightly shut.
Sadness – a kiss on the lips -
my tongue is blistering hot.
Teardrops are glistening,
uncontrollable. I can’t stop.
God, are You listening?!
Listen, God!

My hands - reaching high
to somehow narrow the breach,
to pull down the sky,
which appears out of reach.
Should I attend church
climb to the steeple’s top,
bridge the gap and emerge
from clouds (woken up
from a dream in a daze)
wet and newly baptized?
I’d like to study His face
as He stares at my eyes.
Stop her from leaving me!
Goodness, deceive me not!
God, are You seeing me?!
See me, God!

All alone. Lights dimmed.
She’s no longer here.
What could I tell Him
now, if He didn’t hear
then? What could I tell Him
now, if He couldn’t discern
my voice in a choral hymn
then, when I sang for her?
Prayers are far-fetched.
My fingers - nearly detached.
My arms are outstretched;
His are too far to latch onto.