all that remains

through half-cracked eyes

I see the sins of my life

pile up like bones of war.

some, neatly stacked.

do they plan to assemble into

something useful?

I whimper in thought.

the black inkwell I dip my tip into

seems dry, but not dead.

words head-on collide and crash

straight over the table.

more bones now,

down around my feet

where poetry meets the silence

of my sin.

I wonder if God still knows me...

I fear the tenderness

of his laughter and love,

and the idiot emptiness I create

feels like Nebraska in November,

and snow poking through

the month of June.