Five days without belief,
lost like a pebble tossed into
a deep stream.
My prayers have turned grey, culled by
despair – there but not really there.
Every ghost has come in, crowding
my upper floors. In the wastebins, in the filing cabinets,
my hands have been scraped
and there they fell – two dead weights,
lacking the strength to be lifted.
Like something left out
of the fridge for too long, my taste has
been tainted. God is a soft echo in the open air.
I hear words, but words I cannot formulate
or beckon to come near.
Five sunsets in black and white.
Five days to give in and die or to hold tight
to the thread string, the little string, the are-you-there?-string,
to hold on and commit to never return here
for all my days remaining.