When God Was a Dictator
Rage: one of the many voices of unbearable grief after the death of a loved one.
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.
