Dear God, you allowed Psalm 88
to make it onto the pages of the book they say you wrote,
and the 39th estranged cry from the king who spoke
when he said that crushing silence was his ghostly fate.
Would you mind a lot, Most High,
if I tell You that from down here the pattern isn’t clear
and that for all Your intricate weaving I fear
that either this is madness or just infinite pi in the sky.
It’s not that I don’t want to. I do.
It’s hiraeth upon saudade upon sehnsucht, You see.
The problem is not You. It obvious, it’s me,
and my lack of ability to forget myself and love You.
So where do we go from here?