And the sky becomes a black hole,
Devouring the shrieks of a woman unknown.
The darkness, abysmal,
Like a mother’s womb
Decks up the city in lights.
The crusty hands paint and ask,
“Are the sinners redeemed?”
And the sky becomes a pale blue
Reflection of what we call life,
Engulfing us in drudgery.
The silence is heard – loud, clear and ringing,
As we try to remember,
“What were we celebrating?”