God in Absence

From a tender age, I have known God's greatest shame.

His existence, his absence;
I do not pretend to confirm or deny either.
But if he is, and here I am;
Then I must be his longest suicide note.
A poorly written page blotted with misdeeds,
Aged unkindly.
I sit sealed in the envelope of the mortal coil,
Festering; inked words grow more violent as I grow older.

There is no reality where he exists and is kind.
No reality where he exists and is good.
I find no reason for an abusive, absent father to be praised.
By the desperate victims of his wrath,
His absence,
Every day begging for help, for love, for comfort, for anything.

The things we see in this world,
The good things,
Are through our own efforts.
Through us, in spite of him.
For anyone to say otherwise is a delusion.
A being who can do anything,
Make anything, made everything;
His demand for undying allegiance with no support,
Programming us with folly, with pain.
He strikes us and demeans us for staggering,
For cowering away from him.
As if he doesn't coward away from us,
From what he's done.

And like true victims, we worship him for it.
Love him.

When I finally rot, an apple plucked from the tree,
Broken from his influence, unwilling to bend my knee;
When I awake again and bear witness to whatever
Pathetic charade he reveals himself in:
Framed in light and gold and white.
Shrouded in clouds, announced by a trumpet.

I'll stain him red.