Dear God #2

I'm tired of this constant,
this feeling of defeat
resonating in the hallows
of my being that You
have stripped bare.
Who knew that nothing
inside of nothing
could manifest such pain,
such sorrow?
A pain and a sorrow that feels
shameful to have
because of my apparent
lack of faith -
or the display of the waning
root that's left?
When will You let Your hand up on
hearts and let them grow?
Let them finally grow
around each other as we stretch
and reach higher
and higher
towards You with the others'
support?
Wait
if it's Your desire,
but a small sign or
inkling of hope and encouragement
would be a welcomed
stranger of nourishment
to this weakening root being tromped
under these feet that oppose me,
these feet of those I consider closest
to the void beckoning
its darkness inside.
But I feel oh so alone
on this vacant battlefield
soaked in my blood,
littered with the empty threats
of my oppressors,
the ones that this sword I am
wielding didn't even lift its
edge to slaughter.
It was my fight that
You stripped from me.
My epic that You've
taken authorship of.
Strangely, in this
holy obedience
I desire to submit.
I give in because I can't water myself
when I'm buried under the earth
covered by the blanket of
those that oppress.