His arrow has pierced these hands.

My life is full of empty things;
so much so that His footsteps resound
as He sidesteps His way through
tone deaf love and
graffiti-littered tombstones

like unbridled morning glories braid their way
through fence posts and tree bark
so does He choke out the sunlight from
the roots of my once admired, though now dying
fruit trees.

And I lay in the potter's field and
wait for the inevitable
sunrise.