the moon and the earth a woman,

then how is God a father?

Yet they say He's a spirit with no gender,

then turn around and call Him 'He.'

Why describe Him as a taker?

I guess that would explain why we sow more than we reap.

It couldn't be poisonous... could it?

His touch turns gold into ash,

beauty into garbage,

life into death.

Yet they'll say, "It's all because of sin."

How can He be the creator of all,

but His 'all' be so selective?

They say darkness lures even the faint of heart...

His falling was seductive,

His words almost coercive,

only lacking the skills to convince.

All-knowing and powerful,

yet still couldn't scrape these doubts off my mind,

couldn't fill these gaps in my questions,

the void His words left me in.

And yet His rod and His staff are meant to comfort?

So why do I have bruises on my skin

spelling 'love' backwards?

"He works in mysterious ways," they say,

yet all I see is kids suffering and starving.

"Your problem is you lack faith."

Oh, I'm sorry — I don't believe in fiction,

especially when it doesn't make sense to my diction.

Although I must admit, truly a work of art:

what was the need for creation

if all we were was just a means to demolition?

They say, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend" —

guess that's Samael to me:

the Morning Star,

whose light brightens my world.

"Come to the light!" they scream,

but the void wouldn't leave me alone,

and I found myself at a beginning.

Although if life's a cycle,

how do we even know there ever was a beginning?

Or if there'll ever be an end?

After all, all that lives is energy —

and energy is infinite.

Like stillness.

Like numbers.

There’s no beginning, no end.

So tell me — who rigged the scriptures?

Nothing much to it,

but my ancestors in me

might need some closure.

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