Why
You were called "my refuge" throughout my
youth, but now as sorrow hollows me, I
yearn for Your filling words, but find only the
yawning maw of indifferent silence.
Years I've given You,
yet when I reach out for asylum, the only
yield I find in my upturned palms is handfuls of empty dust.
Your line, perhaps, is already busy with someone
You've decided _is_ a priority, unlike me; either way,
Your voice gives no reply; I only find my own, crying for answer:
"why?"