Paradox (Poetry)

I cannot face God.
If we met I’d only
pick a fight —
question Him
on everything.

I doubt
He’d give any satisfactory
answers.

He’d be evasive
at the very least
or trot out
politician-speak —
blow Bible-smoke
probably. It seems
He loves the sound
of His own voice.

And what
He’d make of me —
a buzzing fly to squash —
one small
subversive voice —
is anybody’s guess.

The closer that
I come to death
I see the flaws —
the yawning gaps
between His words
(if they indeed are His) and
not some long-gone
writer’s desperate
grab at fame.

Prayer’s a one-way
conversation
for the lost
who need some
direction
and are afraid
of being left
on their own.

I would talk to Him
or maybe send
a message —
just the jist
texted to
His eternal mobile
phone

except my heart of
heart believes
that ‘truth’ tells tales —
spins lies
to soothe — console
itself —
more likely
I’d end up
talking to
myself.

Faith might help
I’d like to think
it matters in
the scheme of things.
If there’s no point
I wish He’d prove
me wrong.