Thoughts of Nothing vs. Something

Wait Child,
I'm coaxing you out of your
suicidal shoes.

I'm blowing up your brain
with my hounding mystery.
The sharp corners of my
divine mouth come up
in a slow survey
of your noble struggle.
You will never know,
some of you are smart enough,
lowly enough, reverent enough
to realize this
one
very lonely
truth.

Most of you try to know.
Amusing yes,
but this entertainment
leaves a bittery taste
in my mouth.

Do I do this for sport?
Watch you play your ignorant
act out for me,
you my puppets.
Going only where I tell you,
satisfying my perfect whims,
if you can call them that.

Child, this does not seem true?
No wonder.
I don't blame you so much
for standing with your
feeble knees halfway
into the pulling mud,
and cursing my name.
Hoping like bolts of lightning
flashing in your retinas
that I'm not there.
Hoping that I'm imagination,
how clever and most high
does that make you?
Something that once was dust.

I will not make you a puppet,
so please,
I invite you to think these things.
Live on them,
gobble up this delicious ambiguity
and call out your meaningless existence
for what you believe it to be.
Spend your days drifting,
and your nights
carving god into your own skin.
Carving your own name on your forhead.

Ah yes child,
clever you are and friendly,
manipulating your way through life.
If you have enough luck
to have that choice.
If you are only my flesh and blood,
how selfish does that make me.

Child.
I am not you.
Never have I been,
and never will be.

Look at this world!
Don't you hope for the sake
of the starving
of the dying
of the lonely
that I am not much like you?

And you look at me with
your thin suspicious eyes,
and ask me why I created.
Why I spoke suffering into being.
Vindictive, that's what I am.
A big unknown form in the sky
looking down through the dirty clouds,
and sneering at your bloody sharp lives, and your groaning.

So here we stand,
in an uncomfortable embrace
if you, dearest,
can never learn to accept the impossible.
How will you live with me?

How will your shaking finger
resist pulling the trigger
of the pricking metal gun in your salty hand?

In reality, you're not alone,
but there is not a real crowd either.
Most people like breathing,
laughing too.
Don't you?

Let me show you some small things.
People.
You should know that people
have sparkles of value,
you can see it in their tears
in their carefully chosen smiles
in their hurling clumsiness.

What if I told you, child,
that heaven was true laughter,
and hell was stretching lonliness,
icy, endless misunderstanding.

What if I could promise
that in the end
there would be no shimmering harps
and fluttering wing filled clouds,
but only relationships that always
felt perfectly real?

No dissonance of separation.
This perfection,
the complete spotless openess,
the understanding you've
hoped recklessly for everytime
you put your trebling lips
onto someone else's.

This understanding that has
rubbed sand in the eyes of
your spirit,
everytime it is successful
in hiding from you, once,
so frequently,
again.

This whole knowing,
will be there
living, thriving
in eveyone else's eyes.

Dear Child,
you will have that understanding
dripping down your cheeks,
and you will never hurt anyone again,
and no one will ever hurt you.