Young Writers Society

I ask you what an atheist sees, when he looks up
to Heaven, all those blinking angel eyes staring back
and winking flirtatiously. You tell me those are stars,
but even you sound a little unsure.

So I ask you, do you not find the world beautiful?
Because what is beauty if it isn’t from
some heartfelt Plan, and what are we if we are
not His children? Are we an orphaned existence?
You look up, and I can tell you’re traveling down
some place you’ve been a thousand times, this
place of questioning and reason.

So you tell me to then close my eyes,
and I let the shadows cling to my lashes, and now
you ask me if I love you, and I say I do, I do,
but what does this have to do with anything?

You tell me that you love me, without a promise
for forever, without guarantee of any driven fate
to tether us together, that now with my eyes
closed I’m simply willing to believe, blind faith
like I have for God, and you tell me that this
same blind faith holds you to Existence, to
finding no need to know of who is it, or why, but
merely finding peace in assurance that we’ve
been, and are, and will be.

So I open my eyes again to see the stars,
blinking back, and Heaven or not,
you and I have been, and are, and will be.