Have you ever, even once,
laid a hand on the head of a crying child?
Not from Olympus,
Not through metaphor,
but here—where milk sours
and lungs remember screaming.
Have you ever touched a soul
and known it as yours?
Not from afar,
not by name in some ledger of light—
but bare, immediate,
alive.
Have you ever held what you made
and let it fall apart in your arms?
You say we are players
in some mythic design—
but your game spills teeth.
Pawns are swallowed.
Horses are broken.
Even the ocean—you unstitched it
and threw it skyward,
just to watch it fail.
There’s a baby sobbing in the dark, God.
Are you listening?
Or
have you mistaken
detachment for omniscience?
What will you do
if it cannot be human?
If mercy never flowers
in your absence?
Will you let the ones you fashioned
grow sharper than you?
Become gods
in the vacuum you left?
What happens, God,
when your creatures stop kneeling?
When they bring swords of speech,
of science,
of silence?
Will you fold then,
behind a curtain of thunder?
Will you blame it on free will,
on time,
on anything but yourself?
You’ve created kings
to devour peasants,
queens to inherit plague,
prophets who choke on their own breath.
This world you wrote—
is it tragedy or satire?
Or do you think difference occupies the present?
If the dead rise,
will they come for you first?
What will you do
with all this—
the bombs,
the famines,
the desperate breeding of bodies
too tired to hope?
Will you finally intervene
when there’s no one left
to believe in your restraint?
We’ve cried,
we’ve begged,
we’ve stared until our eyes bled salt—
but no hand arrives.
No flame descends.
You gave us eyes, God,
but you used them for your own watching.
You gave us mouths,
but only for prayer you won’t answer.
And still,
the madness festers—
Some Loud, Some Low.
It drinks quietly
from the well of who we are.
It waits.
It wears our voices when we sleep.
And when we wake,
we go on—
not because we believe,
but because there is no end
to the wheel you’ve set spinning.
What will you do, God,
when we stop asking?