Black Hole

The silence of God is unending,
eternal need
for love, for praise, for approval.

It sucks us in,
a hole so dense at its core
even hate gets bent.

To worry for God is medieval,
for God, himself,
in no way can be said to be trivial,

nor is the pain
that draws us in like a magnet.
Apart from strain,

there is nothing that exists between us
except shared pain.