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Cracks in the Divine
Oh, you, the Messiah of love,
Come, witness this fractured soul,
a portrait of undone hours,
each fragment caught in a web of blood and dust,
scratched with the edges of lost prayers.
I am not whole, not yet,
but what is whole in this world of wounds?
I wear my scars like forgotten maps,
leading nowhere, yet everywhere.
You tell me of salvation,
of light that cuts through the dark,
but I am still here,
shattered by shadows too deep to lift.
I exist in the cracks,
where the world grinds its teeth,
dirty and brutal,
a carnival of survival.
You said, seek help from God,
and I nodded,
but the gods of Earth are loud —
their demands echo in my bones,
their altars built on my time,
my breath, my silence.
I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, my love.
If He is my God too,
why does He feel so far,
like a star swallowed by city smoke?
