Ben Nardolilli

Today’s God is not free,
We’ve held him back
With heart shaped chains.
He no longer smites,
But sits, afraid to let
A miracle slip out
To a hospital in Des Moines,
Or his face to fall into an oven
Cooking an omelet in New Mexico.

His son is impatient,
In his wooden room he paces,
Knocking over perfect chairs,
They communicate through angels,
God worries, but knows
That his son cannot bury him,
And the young man does not worry
About being devoured by his father.

The saints are another matter,
They no longer fear death,
Only banishment, all day long
They sing his praises, and at night
Their spirit dreams continue to imagine
Better worlds ahead, all created
By the man they love.

It’s all paperwork now,
Finding loopholes and reasons
To wrap hate in lovely bows,
A gift to the unrighteous,
He stops listening for his name,
He let men begin to speak it,
Write it down and paint it,
But now each time it is present,
An explosion follows.