Sunday, December 25, 2022

Our Dead God Rules Earth

Our Dead God Rules Earth
© Surazeus
2022 12 25

Our dead god wanders empty city streets, 
leaving unwanted gifts at every door 
where millions of people hide in their rooms, 
safe from pandemic of wrenching disease, 
then stops and tries to hear their secret thoughts 
which they encode in tweets of wingless birds. 

Our dead god knocks on sorrow-shattered doors 
but no one ever opens tombs of hope, 
so he stands on dry meadow by the sea, 
polluted by centuries of steel oil drills, 
and reaches out his hand to touch the sky, 
then cries out, "Why have you abandoned me?" 

Our dead god searches garden of cracked skulls 
for Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, 
but finds old sterile apple trees instead 
that grow from graves of tyrants clutching guns 
who killed millions in their bids to live free, 
so he gnaws on their brains rotten with faith. 

Our dead god wrenches off doors of bank safes 
to expose wealth stolen from hands of workers 
who slave mute in factories and offices 
to run global food-production machine 
that churns new bodies for the institute 
to program as robots in school and church. 

Our dead god tears mask of God off his face 
and howls among abandoned factories 
to lament fall of Ozymandias, 
awake forever in the mangled book 
as he clutches the telephone pole cross 
where his puppet hangs crucified at dawn. 

Our dead god stumbles in the empty church, 
erected on doctrines with fear of death 
he shored against the ruins of false hope 
that he can resurrect his children from the dead 
who wander in the waste land of true faith 
searching for Heaven in handful of dust. 

Our dead god falls into abyss of time, 
tumbling ten thousand years from ivory tower, 
then rises from the television tube, 
reborn as savior of the broken world 
who promises resurrection from death, 
but people of Earth hide in doorless homes. 

Our dead god rules Earth with story of hope 
that we will live in Heaven after death, 
modeled on the realm of formal ideas 
where the Craftsmen molds atoms into beings 
who wake on Christmas morning to sing hymns 
that worship indifferent light of the sun. 

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