the god of hate I rile against is my own invention

and I'm clear of it

facing the brutal fact that all error is fatal

and every mistake cannot be amended

and lying in wait for some plaster saint

or craven idol to ambush does nothing

but waste time and soul's resources

and is nothing but cursing some face in a mirror

so I've learned not to expect what cannot be given

or taken or impossible to be by every natural law

(here is the evil of every idiot religion

or renegade cult

the moronic notions of forgiveness and grace

as prizes of miracle only)

and why lust for the impossible or for what is gone

when the road ahead yields so much unknown to be valued?

every wrong cannot lessen the glimmer of something sought

in the heart unless you let the notion poison you so

or you had no reason as to why you felt it was yours to have

or desired it because being empty you had to fill yourself

with something anything as long as you didn't have to face

the inner vacuum that sucks up any questions you may have had

any thought any creed anything that would give you the meaning

you did not or could not see in yourself

so you see with me on a long autumn afternoon

a vagueness open on a bed staring up at plays of light

and shadow on the ceiling like Plato's cave

so I see with myself emptied of all bile and looking

forward to that coming end that will deliver once and for all

all of us to our destinations those pit stops on that long race forward

so it is with us in the silent vastness of an unknowable heart

while my invention of god fades like a dream on awakening

Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.