Where Faith Meets the Void

Beneath the trembling hand of God, I kneel,
Whispering prayers to what I cannot feel.
The heavens hum with ghostly grace,
Yet grant no sign, no voice, no face.

The chapel sighs, the candles die,
Each flicker mourns another lie.
I’ve called His name through grief, through night,
But silence is His great delight.

They say He loves, they say He saves,
Yet I have dug too many graves.
And each one asks beneath my breath,
If mercy sleeps within our death.

I envy those whose faith still burns,
Whose hearts do not with doubt return.
For mine’s a wilted, broken creed,
A prayer that bleeds but will not feed.

Perhaps belief is but the thread,
That binds the living to the dead.
A fragile myth the soul invents,
To quiet what the dark laments.

Still, I kneel — though reason fades,
Though hope is thin and meaning decays.
For if no light awaits the tomb,
Then faith itself must be the bloom.

And if He’s gone — or never was —
Then I remain, alone, because
It’s better to plead to an empty throne
Than face eternity alone.