You speak of planting Balloon Flowers
While I think of a higher Power.
I say the church bells speak of miracles and omens,
All you hear is the clanging of metal by a circus showman.
For you, God is an abstract, self indulgent thought,
A tool to be used as lives are sold and bought,
Relegated to a deep subconscious urge
As you sing His funeral dirge.
God is dead, Nietzsche wrote, these words I bled,
While you found new ways to make banana bread.
The world is a sad and depressing state, you say.
I still hope, there is a chance to pray.
You believe, we’re all just matter that changes state,
Alone in the universe expanding at an alarming rate,
Without the help of a God, without an embrace,
As I live, floating in a state of grace.
A slight, sliver of ethereal light
Filtering through life as God dressed in white,
There, I see God as the filler of spaces,
Who is the father of all the religious races.
Our arguments we will well oil
Each other’s stands we will foil
As we try to feel God.