Does God really favor the lost?
The way of stars shorn and cast away,
The way of lovers and revenge.
She hurts him as one steps on a shadow
Without knowing, in a state of sorrow
That renders her mad.
Her hesitations surrender to futility.
A choice between one death and another
One painless if not for satellites
One inescapable given the volume
Of her desires. Her music has a density
That crushes all who come near
Should she die others will follow.
She settles into a bed of wallpaper
Expectant but noncommittal.
Bone shavings cling to
Her unsteady vowels.
She writes sad poems
To an audience
That has substituted is for if,
To a world of anonymous doors
And falsely named occupants.
She exists within us all
Unfindable but never lost.