Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The Problem with Religion - For Mom
The problem is that you just raised us to die.
-We were to live careful, waiting
-We were to leave the slate clean
-We were to follow the rules, so many - but we didn't
I want life for you. You've been still with your eyes forced shut
to keep out temptation and death hasn't yet claimed you.
Yet you lie there, claiming it. The weight of a secret guilt pressing you down - still.
Awake dear Mother and create the beauty you've been dying for all of these years.
Your grandchildren await the magic they've been told of.
Your children never outgrew their belief
They too sit, turning grey, awaiting their turn - to live.
They've lived in clumsy spurts driven by instinct not example
You were given that greatest of gifts thought only to belong to gods
... the ability to create, to speak without the limitation of words
And it lies there with you locked behind closed lids, dormant.
For those moments when instinct drove you and you lived,
you were fabulous.
Imagine what it would have been to live purposefully
Not deciding NOT to but doing..
something kind - to you,
for you, ...for me, ...for us...
But you were not raised to live but to die.