Death Of God

I'm empty on the inside
my skin is a shell that guards
a vacuum of unoccupied space

so I fill my time with words
and hours are spent wasted
in front of a dead screen
in the hopes that I will feel

It works, but only for a short while
I grow fat and full from
someone else's fabrication
until that too fades and I am left bereft
like a barren womb

Faded images imprint onto my memory
starbursts burn my eyelids
I learn how to love

as recycled words play on a loop
inside of my head

yet my soul is concave
with a hunger that cannot be sated

and words of prayer
on my lips turn sour,hollowed.

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