Faith, a knife carved in hands of men,
A blade of whispers, sharp with sin,
Born of breath, of dust and lies,
A shadow cast beneath the skies.
They preach of light, of heavens high,
Yet blood runs thick beneath the lie.
For what is truth but words we twist,
To shape the void, to clench a fist?
We build the gods, we shape the clay,
Then beg for mercy, we kneel, we pray.
But the altar's stone is cracked and worn,
By the trust of fools who were never born.
For what is faith but a shattered cry?
A trust in the blind, who teach us to die.
No proof, no hand to hold the heart-
Just men with chains, who tear us apart.
We place our hope in frail, false kings,
Their promises as hollow as the wind's wings.
They speak in tongues, they speak in fire,
But all they fan is our funeral pyre.
So trust if you must, give your soul away-
To the dream of gods we mold from clay.
But know this truth, bitter and cold:
Faith is a chain, a lie sold bold.
YOU ARE READING
When Silence Wept
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
