Talk to me, for the love of anything.

Tell me about your God. What, where, when, and who keeps it all together for you? Is it not just a hologram? One that perhaps some day that you were alone, you created. In what ways does it work? Does it even? Does it hold your hand, wipe away those tears of yours, or put that smile back on your face? Does it alter the slope? Is it not that you do all these things by yourself? Is it not that you're the what, who, which, when, and where that all evolves around? Just take a look at the trails left behind, those hurdles and all the what-nots behind you. Sooner than what could ever be imagined, there will lie the very things you hold dear. There's a very good chance a bed has been lain for me. Just to stare as all fades away. There's hope there's time, and more likely not. So just tell me about that God of yours, that vicious novocaine that you hold the dearest. My words fail, time after time. My lines rumble, with or with no rhyme. Yet, in the corner at the back of your mind or in the whereabouts of it, if you're willing to dig enough, I'm listening.