Religious Agony

I am crushed by the weight of God. His hands push my face down under silken pillows, suffocating the echoes of my ancestors screaming in His House, burning and brimming with rage. What must we do to be free of the agony? What good deeds shall we commit in His name that will allow His grip to loosen and caress our cheeks before he chokes us again to sleep?

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Survival demands us to mold into what is asked of us. Reality kills authenticity. To be a man you must submit to the role and kiss the knees of death as you get on your own, wearing the gloves made of the skin of children unborn. Put on the mask threaded of the beard of your father and prance around on hot iron slates. Perform for the crowd.

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No one will be free.