scatteroflight
Refugee
Love born of argument
you would never have believed possible
but sometimes love and hate live together
and you hate his denial
of (literally) all that's sacred
you hate him for seeing the world through different eyes
but you love those eyes
How can there be love without God?
so it must be one-sided
so much the worse for you
but then why his own vehemence?
He sketches a little universe with his hands
it hangs in air before your eyes
then his laughter destroys it
as he says: I, I myself am as much God
as anyone or anything
He cares enough
to wish for the destruction of God in my mind
and thus in my world
a strange sort of caring
His hands. I know them better than mine
smooth with small black hairs curling up the backs
and I think of divine hands, fingers,
Michelangelo's man and God
and I see our fingers touching in just that way
with the spark leaping between them
invisible but there
And then the morning
when you wake in a cold sweat
thinking you might be free again
and wondering just how far you would have gone
into his godless world
which you'll never know
but which he always said was beautiful too
------------
This poem isn't meant as an attack on atheists--it's just something I wrote quite a while ago about my perspective on one of the most painful experiences of my life, which happened even longer ago--but apparently not long enough.
you would never have believed possible
but sometimes love and hate live together
and you hate his denial
of (literally) all that's sacred
you hate him for seeing the world through different eyes
but you love those eyes
How can there be love without God?
so it must be one-sided
so much the worse for you
but then why his own vehemence?
He sketches a little universe with his hands
it hangs in air before your eyes
then his laughter destroys it
as he says: I, I myself am as much God
as anyone or anything
He cares enough
to wish for the destruction of God in my mind
and thus in my world
a strange sort of caring
His hands. I know them better than mine
smooth with small black hairs curling up the backs
and I think of divine hands, fingers,
Michelangelo's man and God
and I see our fingers touching in just that way
with the spark leaping between them
invisible but there
And then the morning
when you wake in a cold sweat
thinking you might be free again
and wondering just how far you would have gone
into his godless world
which you'll never know
but which he always said was beautiful too
------------
This poem isn't meant as an attack on atheists--it's just something I wrote quite a while ago about my perspective on one of the most painful experiences of my life, which happened even longer ago--but apparently not long enough.