I,
The son of a man
Who as a slave serves his god as he can.
Inconsistent.
One God, and no more.

I,
The child of tradition
Infested and seeping with hate.
Spurring into dereliction
The decrepit faith of our ancestors.

And I,
The God of none
Who as a slave is serving myself.
Consistent.
No Gods, not even one.

If God is what the stories say
Then rip the rituals out of me:
I would rather die than pray
And be erased from all history.

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