We make up stories about our gods, and then
We mock them for behaving as our stories said
They behaved, or we complain to them about theodicy
And our agonies of doubt, just prior to falling
All over ourselves to praise their magnificence
Again, magnificence which no one should question.
What are we doing with them? Why are we
Doing this? We don’t know, but we’re all too happy
To argue ferociously about it, about them, about
Who we are to tell such stories, to tell tales
About any divinity at all, who are ourselves
Most definitely not divine and yet the makers
Of the very essence of anything known to be divine
Because some or someone among us said this was
Divine.
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