In God, We Deflect

Why would humans need god

when they can ruin their own

with a signature,

a silence,

a sentence too heavy to outlive?

Why pray to the sky

when the monsters live among you

wearing your very skin,

smiling in courtrooms,

speaking a tongue

you thought was a shared legacy?

But when you are the one bleeding —

when the body remembers

what memory politely misplaces —

you don’t want to believe

it was your own species

pulling the strings.

So you reach.

Not upward for divinity,

but sideways for denial —

a brittle faith,

handed down like an heirloom

stitched in fear.

You convince yourself

someone, somewhere,

far above and beyond,

holds the blueprint

to this puppetry.

Because it’s easier

than facing the mirror

where the monster looks

a little too much like you —

both meaningless, mortal.

You need god —

not for grace,

but for grief.

Not for hope,

but for hiding.

Because if man spilled his guts and entrails,

man must clean it.

And man —

man can’t stand the stench

of his own flaws and failures.

So gods take the fall.

Because man-made disasters

demand consequence,

and humans are allergic

to consequence

unless it comes with

someone else to crucify.

And god —

god is the perfect suspect.

Omnipresent,

but never present

for questioning.

So the next time you wonder

why gods exist —

remember:

God isn’t the answer.

God is the exit plan.

The alibi.

The myth we whisper

to our conscience

when man needs

a scapegoat

to acquit his own reflection.