There is no poem here.
I still hold onto your
words made
obsolete by time
and damage,
clutching onto them
like holy scripture
in a godless world—
reciting what now
means nothing, distorted
by the stains of sacrilege.

There was never a poem here.
We killed the prophets
weeping, kneeling
with a sinner’s grief
at the ruins
of sacred places
we’ve destroyed.

Don’t make me put a poem here.
I can’t create anything,
I only rearrange
the thoughts over-ripened
by silence
I can’t suppress.