I wrote this prose poem last month after seeing this post about three billboards put up in Ohio by an atheist group. They were pretty thought-provoking (and controversial, as we might expect). The title is based on the billboard's message.
We are as mice. Someone always wants us dead. Only in the
garden can we be safe, but that place has been lost to us—if it ever existed
beyond legend. The wheel turns, the hand of one who hates us cracks a whip.
They tell us a story with a before and after, but the sun knows better. There
is only turning.
