Cracked Cup of Sky-Silver

A cracked cup of sky;
empty bowl of belief
burdened by a thousand wishful eyes.
A silent gaping wound
depended upon to sustain us
has dropped its pretence
of heaven and stunning stars.

Honed by our hunger
it could not longer bear
the weight of our longing;
eyes lifted as if searching
for some secluded answer
or enigmatic cloud
that might take the shape of a god
or a Jesus, or a heart
lost and languishing in our fantasy
that answers are outside ourselves.

In is where it is, the sky’s breath
has filled our souls and stated
all there is to be said of it.
Faith pinned like stars on the hollows
of our heart, pulsing, pressing,
twisting in the disillusionment
that star watchers have witnessed
anything other than what they wanted to see.

In here, in there; there where the knowing is
rooted in reality rather than symbols,
where the sun has never shone
and yet joy resides without it.
Deep within; drenched in the fluid
that we see as red and raw emotion, is a place
where love and doves and paradigms of prose
have never betrayed even one wet touch.

We have hung on to the night
until it has caved in on us
and we see no fancy feathers,
no holy robed harbinger
of resurrections or hell
or anything other than dusk and dawn
that saturates a tired sky, a tired soul
and slipped blackness in a forest of feelings.