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Why Not Make of Me a God?

the question of why we are here 
has been banded around by poets 
and such like a rabid dog in harness-- 
assuming a proximity to the beast 
that never really existed. 
letting out a little slack 
then pulling it back in again 
but always keeping their distance. 
never coming close enough 
to pet its fur 
to smell its breath 
to take a bite from 
its skybound ears. 
the reason we are here is an obvious one. 
to amuse the gods, of course. 
and if you don't believe 
in gods, then invent some. 
why not, when there is nothing 
else you believe in? 
and if you haven't 
the imagination for that 
make of me a god! 
my heritage is as noble as any-- 
landowners, statesmen and financiers... 
alcoholics, depressives, slaves. 
make of me a god! 
pimp my name in 
the temples and cathedrals. 
build me up to the point 
of exquisite holiness. 
suck the bile from 
my wounds 
the puss from 
my sores. 
grain by grain
draw out the sand 
from between my toes. 
make of me a god!
worship me, build statues, 
erect monuments. 
throw your hearts 
into the fire to fuel 
my ascension. 
toss in your eyes, 
your ears and belongings 
then watch me burn on 
the limp pyre you created. 
make of me a sacrifice!
me, another god who 
promised everything 
and delivered nothing.

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