Requiem Mass:
The Death of God
My being suddenly became a ghost,
A substance pale enough for fog or hail
To penetrate, its flesh and veins the host
For transubstantiated loss, a grail
Predestined for the gruel-like fate your face
Left lingering on the night you went away.
My tongue became a cloud that cannot brace
Itself against the winds of silence. Stray
Vicissitudes lift desolation’s sands,
Arise as desert storms around my wraith-
Like heart to claw at it with arid hands
That wear away belief in love and faith.
My being is a spectre, like dry air,
Partaking of the sacrament, despair.