Your issue was never with religion,
never with god(s) nor the infinite
that brushes softly against the soul.
It has always been with man,
with how we wield what we claim is holy
to carve out kingdoms of dust
and call them eternal.
We took whispers of the divine,
bent them into blades,
and made gods in our image—
hungry, vengeful, trembling with pride.
But that was not good enough.
So we made God in our image.
Crusade in our image,
with His approval,
marching under banners stained red
long before they touched the battlefield.
Hurt in His image,
with our approval,
justifying pain with a borrowed voice,
pretending heaven agrees.
What we could not understand, we burned.
What we could not control, we chained.
We built altars atop the bones of dissent,
We wrote scripture in blood,
the ink running dry as our hearts followed.
And still, we pray—not to the infinite,
but to ourselves.
We kneel before reflections,
shadows twisted by our wants.
We do not see the god we made
until it raises its hand in anger,
and even then,
we call it holy.
Man has always feared the vastness of the sky,
so we dragged it down
and made it small enough to hold.
