V. H. King's Ink

we are all paralyzed, watching each
other die knowing none of us will
survive. so we keep quiet, thinking 
to ourselves: stand up, little soldier,
and fall in line. God's going to make
us dance in double-time, pulling our
strings across the stage made for us. 

I straggle behind, a soul in a body
that's a ghost of a memory. I have 
nothing, but I guess that's how God
wants me: burnt out and buried
in order to show off. "And why not?"
I asked. "This is your playground,
after all. What are we, other than

broken toys in the sandbox of your
cosmic making? Where is the 
magnifying glass, amplifying glory 
to glory to global climate catastrophe? 
Do you like how we squirm, sorry 
little puppets scorched by your cruelty?

And when we are strewn across
the centuries with nothing but ache
and agony, will you finally be pleased?
Or will you pass your heavy hand 
over us, setting us to rights against 
our will, forcing blood-blooms 
and blossomed fate until we become
the right kind of nothingness?

All that suffering will spoil your 
dinner; deities can't feast on dessert
alone and expect the underbelly
not to show. Your own son wasn't 
enough, and neither are the lies spread
and the lives scoured away in your name."

I have been guilty of performing too
many monologues in God's face
before turning my back, saying 
"And why should God care about 
us? We are not special. We have 
little talent, save for repeating 
all of God's worst mistakes.”