Somethings not even Him will forgive, and there are wounds that will never heal, because it will fester forever no matter how many times you ask why?
George Carrol's blog make me realize that I am one of those unchristians that will never forgive the woman that gave me that open sore by killing my unborn son. And it was so long time ago...

How long has been? I was angry,
nor want to hear or wish to read,
my heart was still reeking pain
and my eyes didn’t want to see
the time that was going by
without even a look towards me.

Solitude always does it to you,
closing the doors to another wind,
shutting the windows to hope
and making your tears to run free,
alone with your thoughts realizing
how utterly alone anybody can be.

I didn’t want to turn on the lights
when dark came like a burglar in,
letting the fingers of the moon
to point at the book by my feet,
black covers with golden letters,
long ago I was compelled to read.

That was before my world ended,
a dear John letter I did received,
in the battle field where my buddies
were dying inside tents in green,
calling for their mothers at home
but nobody came before their exit.

Darkness, bend over and grab the book,
pages full of little words and yellowish,
with solitude times of no one reading
because what it can say for old sins,
but to give a flattened dry flower like an
old soul in those unread pages between.

He looked at the sky and to his Father
asking why He had forsaken Him,
like I had forsaken that dry flower
that make me remember all of she,
a wilted one without color or perfume
and which only a Bible could forgive.