GOD, ON THE SUBJECT OF MAN

I worship thee, little ones.

I worship and pray for thee.

I marvel at what thou hast created

and thank thee for thy multitude of gifts.

 

I praise thy rock-anchored ignorance,

cloaked in your own bloody robes of belief.

All tethered, like Issac, to the peak

of the sharp-stoned mountain of hypocrisy.

Awaiting, as it rises out of the rivers of truth

with furious vengeance,

your own presumptuous judgement.

 

Should your Faith lose grip and fall,

I shall watch, form the zenith of Zion,

as you slide down painful paths,

into thick,

heavy,

gluttonous,

warmth - silken, golden truth.

The means to the end of bliss was never easy.

 

But cling firm now, never let go

for fear of being wrong,

and never swim free,

rejoicing

in the truth

that is your homemade reality.

 

Paradox, after scathing

paradox.

I marvel at what thou hast created

I worship and pray for thee,

I worship thee: little ignorant ones