When God Was a Dictator

Rage: one of the many voices of unbearable grief after the death of a loved one.

Ning Tendo
1 min readJan 28, 2022
Photo by Filippo Pinsoglio from Pexels

I was a token shell.
A cracked image with only sharp edges —
abandoned, used, insubstantial.
Was this funhouse mirror perception
or the truth?

I was beyond caring for I had
found solace in my wallowing.
A sense of justice that I had been
right all along —

That. God. Was. A. Dictator.

How can there be free will,
when all trails lead to death?
When there is only one path,
all else leads to a blow in the jaw.
Sometimes a massive faceplant into a pile of sh*t.

What is the point when I am inconsequential?

A pun in a cosmic game of chess,
carelessly blown by the wind like nothing.
I am tired of this game and surrender,
not the peaceful kind full of acceptance,
but the fu*k it, crawling out of the room kind.

God is a dictator, and I am done playing this game.
The cracked shell waits.



Ning Tendo

Poet and apprentice to sorrow. I help people find their rhythm in grief by providing resources to support, orient, and nourish them. www.griefdances.com