More clutter accumulates than a landfill gathers rubbish—

Boxes of my great-grandfather’s papers stacked to the ceiling.

He interpreted God in a way that speaks to the deepest trenches of my soul.

I’ve forgotten the sound of my conscience,

Dead air and space buzzing in my empty head—

No walls for the acoustics to bounce off of.

Shrill static, microphone feedback deafening to the point of no return.

It was God chiming the doomsday bells.

I told the voice to bite its tongue

And allow me to make room for spring.

But the other line crackled silence

And I got lost trying to find my way back to the garden.