Epiphany

I created my god, who made yours?

A child was born,
A bunch of nerves
And wet sinews
Thrust into the world,
Alone
To search and seek,
And find which way was truth.
I was not helped -
No charity
To guide my feet
And hold my hand
And lead me on
To clarity -
In fact, on lies
And false hopes,
I was fed
To cloud and confuse
My aching head...

So I turned to the Spirit of the T,
The old, that is,
Before JC
And the thought occurred
As I suppose it must
To such minds as those of us,
Who are predisposed
To dwell upon such thoughts as those:
What kind of being
What god is he
That bridles with
Such human jealousy?
In the new is not more pleasant
For he sent himself,
His son, you say,
But himself, the same,
And though steeped in blind paradox,
Meaningless in its circularity,
Offered himself, his son, himself
As sacrificial present.
And even if my mind refused to reel
I would still be obliged to feel
A little miffed, annoyed too
That he fooled me, he fooled you.
A glorious mystery you'd believe,
That one is the other,
But not the same.
Can you be so daft?
Can I be so lame?
How could be, this miracle
That he be both, water and an icicle?
Oh the confused men
And self-righteous fools
Who gather 'round in awe
At these farcical jewels!

So I fashioned anew
A god of air,
A god with a small g
To show his humanity,
A god of hope
And not despair.
I gave him no name,
For names exist in reality
And he was but escape
For isn't that
What, deep down, we
Really, really crave?

I still don't know what I believe
Just it cannot be
In some silly fairy tale -
A god who one moment grants reprieve
And withholds it the next
To gauge our lowly hearts
When put, so 'justly', to the test.
I try to be straight and rational
But cannot help but feel
That there is still meaning,
Tho' it may illusion be
And if that's so,
That would fit,
If meaning is an illusion,
That's my god,
That's it.