Some say there is
a singular God,
a mad male monster.
We ought to stick him
in a dumpster and move on.

Some say God
smells like grand incense and 
is made of love and gentle words.

Some say sulfur
is heaven’s breath and
you’ll smell it forever in hell
to remind you of God’s 
withheld kiss
if you 
don’t watch out.

Some say, c’mon,
you morons, you children, 
you can’t prove God so there isn’t one.
They shit on the notion
and laugh as they make you
wipe up after.

I’d like to tell you about
the God I don’t worship
but keep at arm’s length
because of all those people
I just mentioned
but you scare me, you
whose certainty blinds you
to how often received truth changes.

This God I acknowledge
but refuse to worship
in a crack in a dungeon wall,
holds a handcuff key sacred
without having hands,
like groundwater to the surface
in the dark and soaks the land
before growth, 
but never
causes anything to happen. 

I don’t understand it,
neither do you.
But clear as day
there’s the water, 

there’s definitely
a prisoner singing
in the dark,

and there without question
is the sound
of manacles cracking open.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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