Godflesh

Religion makes gods of men.

For gods —

they were atheists themselves.

No ancient scripture tells you

a god ever prayed.

But belief?

It’s business.

And every business needs a selling proposition.

So they bottled divinity —

in the sweat of sinners

and the tears of the poor.

Because faith needs faces.

Smiling. Bleeding. Forgiving.

Calendar gods

for crumbling lives.

Hope became currency for the dying.

And in a world obsessed with not dying,

immortality —

became the most addictive drug.

But here’s the joke:

You can’t make gods of believers.

Believers don’t ask questions.

They chant them.

Wrap them in rituals

and call it peace.

They wear faith like a crutch —

not to heal,

but to hobble with dignity.

Their salvation is secondhand —

inherited like trauma,

sung like lullabies

to silence what still aches.

Temples. Churches. Mosques —

not homes of truth,

but fortresses of fear.

We crowned silence in thorns and halos.

We named our guilt: God.

Now ask yourself —

if gods became god-fearing,

would you still believe in gods?

Or would your faith collapse

without something to kneel to?