I Argue with God

I’m sick of all your sophistry
your stories of how suffering
somehow ennobles the spirit
your assurances that we’re
your chosen people.
Chosen for what – the camps?
OK you created death
as the price we paid for knowledge
as payback for the apple
you warned us not to touch.
Or to prevent this small blue sphere
hung like a glittery ornament
in empty space
from becoming overrun.
Malthus would have approved.
But why inflict so much pain
before the final sweet release
on those who never ceased
to praise your name?
On small children?
On babies?
We were supposed to be
a little lower than the angels.
Why make us grovel like the beasts?
What is the purpose in all that?
Tell me.


(Originally published in Leaves Of Ink)

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