By: Ian Fletcher

There’s something within him
That cannot bear an open mind
For he will always try to fill it
With dogma and talk of God
The almighty power he says
We must believe in and obey.
When I ask what kind of being
This God could be he replies
That his nature is a mystery
To those such as you and me
Something to do with seeing
Truth through a glass darkly
But that we must have faith
Or we can never be saved.
He mentions the old texts
That are the Lord’s Holy Writ
Evidence of an immortal soul
And that prayer is the portal
To heaven and eternal bliss.
Although I find all this absurd
I leave these conversations
Always thoroughly perturbed
By this man’s iron certainty
For he has a trusty compass
That navigates him across
The storm-tossed seas of life
Whilst I without such bearings
Am lost in existential chaos.
Yet once I step outside
Into the fresh air I find
I am immediately freed
From him and his divinity
As he and his abstract God
Vanish from my mind’s eye
And evaporate in the breeze.