Dear God,
It’s hard down here. I often
find
it difficult
to know what’s in your mind
when you
say, “Live,” and, “Be.” It seems you keep
your purpose
to yourself, for life is sleep
to us, and,
being, in your absence, blind
to all your
greater ways, the world’s unkind
in what it
can reveal – the twist and bind
round every
stacked-up pain that we two reap.
Dear God!
We quarrel
so. It’s certain we’re designed
to hurt; the
fault lies there and you’re behind
it. Why? It
makes no sense that we’re to leap
towards you,
crash and scatter in a heap
of husks. So,
which of us is more maligned,
Dear God?
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