deepundergroundpoetry.com
Only Cowards Whisper to Islands in the Sand
We are nothing
but islands, surrounded by sand
united by a drought that we once thanked God for,
now blame. God is dead, killed by belief in the now.
His whispers died beneath our dust and
if all he could do was whisper, he was never our God.
We're still falling from the eves of yesterdays;
skin encrusted, abrasive and litters the ground
every time we risk a touch.
We await the clouds' archers, but every wave of arrows
is gurgled and swallowed by the sand
which is more thirsty than independence.
We know nothing
dies quicker than pain washed
in the warm night's summer rains
but it can't rain forever and hope is as dry as driftwood.
Until we float down the colourless aquifer
let us live like the rain's never gonna come
and flake away 'til our bones
collapse into each other's
and answer the whispers buried beneath us.
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