On the night of the Barley moon
he became a lost soul;
dark matter in the whirlpool of creation;
the dust of a burned-out star;
a fading light;
a fake miracle;
a fallen angel.
He had forsaken his loved ones;
he had forsaken his God.
And God punished him.
He was sentenced
to drift in the cosmos
locked inside a shell of desolation,
in a bubble of unfulfilled prayers,
in a prison of false hopes.
And any one who loved him was cursed
to hurt him and be hurt by him in return.
He died like he was born:
Listening to the cries of his fears;
to the dull beating of his sorrow.
Cold, weak...
alone.
Niko Tiliopoulos
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/good-is-what-god-wills/
