He always wanted to believe in God
It was so comforting
like a child in his mother's lap
warm and protected
rocked to sleep on stories
of kings and fairies
in far-away lands
leading to dreams he would regret
waking up from.
It was not a thing to question
the divine scheme of things:
the sufferings of the virtuous
was God testing the faithful;
the prosperity of the evil
was only in this transient world
leading to eternal damnation in hell;
and if he met his Waterloo,
it was Divine Justice.
And destiny presented Him
as helpless as humans
in the grip of the fixed,
the unchangeable.
Prayers and rituals appeared useless,
a waste of time.
After five decades of his fragile existence
having borne
pain, sorrow, suffering
he returned to the question
Was there a God?
If yes, is He a sadist
enjoying Himself
at the expense of others?
But he still wanted
to believe in God
if only to use this as a quilt
to wriggle in when it was cold,
a refuge
even if one
of make-believe.
