I look up at my ceiling,
Knowing the blank night sky that lay behind.
I can feel baleful eyes staring there too.
Toward a barren sky,
That once held a god.
I can feel the pain, panic, pressure.
A wall that used to be boring bricks,
Now assaulted upon their fragile, childish bodies.
“Mommy, I’m not dead.”
I can feel them all.
I can hear their weak and fading cries,
Teetering on the brink of existence.

A mother digs.
Stray nails and mortar brazing her knuckles.
Splinters flying under her skin.
She digs, uncaring of the pain,
Only to reach a limp body.
Surely this is not her child.
But the shell of a child once known.

What the hell are you doing god?
Filing your angelic nails on your precious throne?
I swore off talking to you,
But this obscure excuse for a prayer…
Is not for me.
Please help the Haitians.
The people you claimed as “yours”.
Who do they belong to now?
You coward.
Don’t show your face.
If you are even there,
You really had me fooled.
Thinking that you were made of love.