Fear of God

I have yet to see the art of death.

because of this,

I find myself lucky

in a world where the night moves

and the day sleeps,

to rest each day

knowing tomorrow is sacred -

that is a blessing.

i have been told there is a man on the far side of the moon.

He who made us in his image,

Whose name strikes warmth in the hearts of the masses

but a certain shiver in mine

you might have noticed

that He,

is not a man I place my faith in

But He works in the night,

And i cannot help it but fear

That his final judgement is true,

And will tear me down when i pray salvation.

how could He call himself our father

if He created us to suffer

indiscriminate of the sinner and the innocent.

to what extent can we justify His wrath?

does it derive from anger, or something more sinister?

or could it be that we simply live in a machine

that was meant to have no ghost?

***

there was once a man at the market.

with pamphlets and a news cap and such

atop of a milk crake

who claimed he knew the gospel.

and that he had seen Him in his dreams on the far side of the moon.

I tried to pass him by -

judging him

as if I knew more of him than his rhetoric in this moment, in this place

But i could not help it but match his eyes

And somehow on my stoic face he saw that

Thing in me, that beat,

Begging him to say,

“My son,

You have felt it.”

“That is the fear of god”

of god, or of his followers?

these are blind men and women who wish to see the world burn

they say it’s not their wish,

but if I spend the day talking of the end

you are forced to think that the now is not enough

so if there is a god,

He is a hateful one that did not create me in his image.

And others with a disdain in their hearts

For the imperfect, and all its beautiful.

yet, there is that beat.

thump, thump, thump, thump

deep in my mind

but impossible to ignore.

it counts in fours,

but every morning I feel it count faster

as if it were a light and a darkness

coming down and rising up

until the point where I beg it to drown

What if i listen to it?

What if i follow the beat?

Because what if it’s Him, waiting for me.

Waiting for me to stop counting in fours.

And never summon me a storm to roar it silent?

I will not be the first,

but I do naively hope,

that I am the last to hear His noise,

so that the day he takes me away

to the circles our kind were once destined to

before He cleansed us of sin,

I can come back to you

free of static or worry,

and say that there is (or there is not) a reason

for the Fear of God