He has given up his search for your god
certain he does not exist.
A faith as strong as yours.
Perhaps stronger, as you have doubts.
Evil done by those espousing goodness,
good done by those labeled bad,
and nowhere does a god play a róle
(as far as he can see).
He fears what falls from the sky,
and wishes he could bring a woman
back to life.
He so wants to hear that sound at the back
of her throat,
a soft sob or laughter.
(Men can never tell which).
There is little holding us above the savages.
That wilderness of snakes, scorpions,
and albino wolves.
Perhaps it is we refuse to sit in our own
Perhaps it is we can copulate
for the fuck of it.
For sure we can think beyond ourselves,
beyond the fastest grasp,
to a better place our prophets never reach.
Walking on water from a stone,
a river of wine,
declaring easy miracles from a fickle god.
With his hand in your mouth he’ll gain
and betray you all the same,
leaving you only the option to bite.
Pain robs foresight and history is clouded
when lacking an eye.
It is easier to live without gods.