God is crying, crying, crying, inconsolable, outraged. Powerful cars sputter, cough, clunk-clunk-thunk to a stop, swimming, sinking, struggling to gasp through torrents of his tears, his howls of fury. Daggers crack open the sky with the fierce vengeance of a wronged soul, lashing out to any, every, unleashing his burden on the vulnerable, unleashing pain.
Frightened trees bow, frightened people drown. I wonder who He weeps for?
Perhaps he cries for the burnt-blue beggar kneeling titter-tattered on the filth strewn street; the one I can’t bear to look at. The one singing bad opera with his arms chopped off. His eyes are unfocused and his ribs jut sharply out from too-tight skin.
Perhaps he cries for the baby girls tossed away frivolously as half-chewed corn cobs. One sits quietly, emotionless, half-hidden in the shade of a jagged metal coverpiece.
Perhaps he cries for the starving boy who steals, for the wealthy one that steals more.
Perhaps he cries for the passer-bys that casually watch a drunkard-driver rip open an infant and leave him raw, bloody, tasty for death. Perhaps he cries for the elegant young women sold to be whores, who grow old, hard, bitter, years of suffering etched laboriously into their unevenly lined masks.
Perhaps he cries for dreams abandoned by eager faces that forgot. I forgot once, too.
Rusty-amber lights writhe violently in the tantrum of tears, rippling in rage that goes on and on and on. The cars have lost hope now; they are deserted, desolate. Some become suffocation traps submerged in the flood, a casket of dead bodies to be found in the morning calm.
I look for the ark, but there is none.