In the electorate of His rejection: A poem 

I can see the universe feels 

like a lone wolf pup in a snowy  

expanse; growing into a puberty 

of realisations, as it warms itself 

against the cold flame of solitude 

in a multitude. There is so much 

exclamation within; lights falling  

into oblivion and oblivion exploding 

into lights. But where does the grief 

begin? There can only be a realisation  

that the bête noire must be confronted; 

and it is a permeating permafrost of poison 

that even nourished vegetation must 

imbibe for its own protection. 

God feels the pain of such an unfair 

framework, where he must undergo  

 that suffering for a sustenance or face 

universal destruction. Like the cruelty 

of evil is an imposing and unwelcome 

need of the day. And can God cry? 

He feels the victimisation of a bull 

that perpetually has to be intimidated 

by the wily matador and must play the game, 

or else the arena would be vacated of the crowds 

who have no knowledge that the flesh of their  

fun is an eternal sin. Would they prefer the  

activity of the universe be ended in the bull  

goring the matador, or collapsing dead itself. 

Do you understand the agony of God, 

the gladiator, who makes himself the slave 

of the empire; when the empire was his? 

How does he feel with the knowledge 

that he must always be defeated because 

his own subjects join hands with the treachery  

and cast their vote against him.