how can it be so that the
dead god I worshipped for so long
is not who everyone
told me he was

how can it be that my
dead god in golden coffin all
wrapped up in ribbons and
pearlescent papers
could have been so
cruel and blind?

my dead god was unwearied in
my heart and soul. his
fountain of goodness sparkling
leaving shards of curled gold
in my hair and skin
embedded so deeply like
lead splinters from classroom pencils.
stabbed and bled by his preciousness,
holding onto his dead hand
and screaming for guidance and release
as his voice stayed silent and
he stayed, as ever, below me in his grave.

how can it be so
that I am paying the penance for his
how can it be so
that I mourned so deeply for the loss
of the monster under the bed?
a dead god,
a torturing god,
unleashing the fury-storm
on the defenseless.

how can it be so that the whole
ocean poured from my eyes
for a knife such as this?
am I wrong, wrong, wrong?

the tribe of guilt makes a fire
in my mind, dancing their
dance of ceremony.
would other children be not
so terrified, I wonder?
would other children be
more robust and red-cheeked?

o, tribe.
you love the warmth of my gold mind.
but you
and the dead god you worship
must be shown to the exit
or I fear all the good I reap’t,
will go.


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