Poetry

A boulder on my neck. 
I am climbing your 
house, O god. 
 
I don’t believe you. 
I trust the man, 
a committed trespasser. 
 
A crestfallen humanity 
walking endlessly in― 
the valley of tears, 
 
to find the clean water, 
the bread and roof. The 
anguish breaks the morals. 
 
And our painted deities, 
resting on their thrones to 
see the vultures descending.