Eve after eve, ever after ever,

I spilled my gilded urn of trust into the withered and leathery hands of the Torah,

My shiny youthful naivety is a thing of pleasure for the ancient entity.

He greedily drinks and drinks, like he’s been parched for years, until.

Until I begin to really look at the wrinkled hands that have no face,

No mouth or eyes.

Humanity is a ghostly soul, its only purpose being to bring otherwise useless, heavy flesh to life.

And the eye is a window into that very wraith, you can see its silver form, lingering in the absence of the pupil’s light.

So how does one affirm a faceless being? 

One who can only prove any kind of mortality with the thousand wrinkles on the palm, the blister on the knuckle? 

You can’t, and yet you still give.