We are all sleeping.
Shielding our eyes from the light and choosing to live in darkness.
It’s easier, more comforting.
Is not the morning Sun a harsh sting at first glance?
But it then provides warmth and light for the day,
preparing us for the night.

As when the sun splits the heavy sky at dawn
she peeks her head out but we ignore her.
We pull tight the curtains
of ignorance when she
slips above the horizon of our outlook.
Her words are not comforting,
they are convicting.
She is mocked, ridiculed, hidden, silenced, kidnapped,
even killed.

Ultimately she is replaced by someone else
better looking, sweeter smelling,
but fake.
And still, we look upon her face and cheer with delight.
She is invented, contrived, fabricated,
as dull as the light echoing off the
pitted moon in the dead of night.
We all love her, protect her.
How can’t they see?
How can’t they tell how flawed she is?

One day they will wake and ask
Where is the other girl, the first one?
And they will search,
seeking her face, hungry for her
once piercing words.
And they will find her.
The body lying in the wilderness,
tossed aside, forgotten, and beaten.
She was a bright lantern helping the shepherd
lead his flock to safety.
Now the flame is gone,
never able to be relit.
We then wonder
Who could have done this?
But it was all of us.
She is dead.
We have killed her.