Should I murder God,
In the midst of night,
Would anyone take notice
Of the bloodied sky?
If in a beggar’s prostration,
Cup in hand, awaiting charitable mercy
And alcoholic warmth, I am injured enough
To commit murder, may I deem it just?
Just, in that I am no mercy
Or worthy of such prayers,
So why does the Almighty,
Not heed them thus?
Why must it be left,
To those themselves tortured
By life in entirety, to answer the cries
Intended for a Creator?
Why must selfish life,
Tend to life, and dying flesh,
And deny itself
In favour of another's burden?
I look on with pity, at shivering bodies
At warm conscious corpses
In the icy winter wind, which bites me so
And see respite in death alone.
Coming to revile all spirituality,
Reverence for divinity, and adherence to scriptures;
All selfish and hollow, like my complaints,
Like their begging, like hunger in us all.
If I were to Murder,
So that they should look to none but themselves,
Would I not be righteous, in removing false hope,
And preaching of life as it is, rather than were?
In my heart lies an empty grave, engraved thus;
"Here lays the Lord, slain in battle",
For I knew the day would come,
When I could no longer bear the ceaseless cries of suffering.
If I were to Murder, the Maker of all pains and sorrows,
Of the Heavens and the Earth,
Of the fires of Hell, of famine and death, of life so ugly,
And despairing. Of pain itself, of being, being in a place of constant sorrows,
Measured by their temporary cessation, as a break in the clouds,
Which we cling to like a moment of sunshine, smiling, forgetting always
That sadness is the rule. Would it all be in vain,
I fear, would anyone notice?
I fancy they would continue in their ways,
Clinging to time honoured traditions,
Archaic methods contrary to reason,
Unjust in the zeitgeist which post-dates their relevance.
I fear it would pointless, and though I long for no credit in the deed,
It would be unheeded all the same; as they would remain unchanged,
For they require no God, no Truth, no Fire in the sky,
So long as they have rules, and false hopes.
Imagination and machinations that would continue regardless, in spite of facts,
Thus rendering the service meaningless, and prayers harder to bear.
Irrelevant is the truth, and less relevant miracles,
They ask nothing of anything,
And like sheep follow for their own selfish fears,
Reproducing them in children, such that idiocy should live on.
In spite of the Virgin, and her Son on the Cross,
In spite of their neighbours, in spite of humanity,
In spite of anything,
In spite, they live on.
By Haemophiliac
Finished 22/12/09
