Where was I
Haunting questions
gather, slow and heavy,
threads of shadow
twining ruin in their grasp:
why did He permit it?
Why them, and not others?
A finger rises,
silent, merciless,
piercing the sky’s veins,
a cry turned to stone,
accusing the eternal.
Yet I do not lay on God
the weight of every wound,
nor shatter silence
with the clamor of doubt.
Instead, I remain,
a vigilant dust,
and within me,
a thought stirs, trembling:
where was I,
a scattered fragment,
when He sketched
the abyss and the light?
When the first breath
stirred the void
and the Word
unfolded on the wind?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
