We live in
the evening
observing
other beings,

reading
new and old stories
following
the yellow brick road
even though
its full of dust motes
and black mold.

Trying to be strong
but we are depressed
and compressed
into
something new;

Unable to walk to you
or through the crack
in the soon to be
shattered glass
perspective,

you expect us
to conform to
your pews,
bending in devotion
in your church,

but we worship
in other ways
chase better days

When the fog of pain abates,
when you ask us why,
we do not know for sure,
perhaps we never will.