The burden of our many karmic debts
Is staggering, and still we feel it grow.
The devil said to dwell below us whets
His blade, and by that rhythmic scrape we know
The balance shall be paid in full. In math
We trust, because the numbers never lie.
We hope that God is not some psychopath
Who lures us to his palace in the sky
To have his way with us, where we’d endure
His molestations like a battered wife
Afraid to jeopardize her sinecure,
But mostly we desire to live a life
Without the inconveniences of penance.
Creators own the choicest real estate,
Where we abide as temporary tenants,
But if we wish to enter heaven’s gate
We must, we’re told, give in to fair demands,
Exchanging what we want for what we need—
The clerics of a thousand Samarkands
Would never validate our vagrant creed.
Nonplussed, we take our stations at the wheel
Again, adrift upon the ebb and flow
Of cosmic tides, without sufficient zeal
To laud the One that made us long ago.