Picture this:

A faceless man

on the corner of a street you’ve never

been down before.

Shackles bite his wrists,

his ankles,

chains that spool out endlessly,

like veins of iron.

In each link,

a name is faintly inscribed,

ghost-script in the metal.

You know,

in that strange, buried way,

you know what the

names mean. And you know,

with the quiet dread of recognition,

who the faceless man is,

and why

he drags the weight.

You see yourself

in his void of a face,

your own agony,

etched clean into silhouette.

Those days you crawl into

your grave,

writing:

_Why doesn’t He hear me?_

_Why aren’t I saved?_

You believe it is only you,

your grief,

your storm,

your silence.

But on this corner

of this unknown street,

you may find

someone else,

trapped in grief,

folded into mourning,

and cradling the wreckage

of something

that once

could have been

_so_

beautiful.

_(This is what I think of when I accidentally type “God morning” instead of “Good morning”:) _