A God Half-Mad
If He’s real, then He’s a jest, A maker who watched as we sunk to rest.
He gave us fire, He gave us flame, But when it flickered, He left the same.
He shaped us from the dust and stone, Then left us to rot, abandoned, alone.
Our screams were swallowed by the cold, A deafened deity too distant and old.
Or perhaps He’s something even more grand, A being beyond our frail, fleeting hand—
Too vast for minds that struggle to see The thoughts of one who transcends you and me.
God cannot know the sting of the fall, The weight of the world or the silence of our call.
He cannot feel the ache of desire, For gods can’t burn like men can’t aspire.
We were never meant to bear His name, Not made to question, not built to claim.
We reach for grace, but remain apart, A shadowed figure and a broken heart.
And maybe, in our despair’s deep well, We’ve fashioned a faith we can’t dispel.
For how could we, in all our blight, Ever understand what hides the light?
A God half-mad, and we, the same— Too lost to break free, too proud to blame.
We are the lost and He, the blind, A perfect void who left us behind.