A garden tomato in the shape
of the Virgin Mary is revered
in Mexico. In the night sky,
an arrowhead group of stars
points toward... nothing.

Some say we are each allotted
a certain number of days.
An absurd idea, like all attempts
at explaining the mysterious
with the universal. God the
Divine Accountant? Please.

Pick any religion you like.
Since each thinks
they have the answers,
they are all failures.
Make up your own; it will
serve you just as well.

No one knows any more
or less about God than
you do. It's all pretense.
We argue most vehemently about
what we are most uncertain.
No one disputes that
the sun will rise tomorrow.

Strangely absent is hard evidence
that God ever wrote a sentence
or a word, for that matter.
He didn't even sign the book.

This troubled world we hold
in our hands is the same as
it was when Jesus did his thing.
Religion has changed nothing:
there's the proof that its
answers are made of hot air.
(Remember the Nazis? They had
crosses painted all over
their military machines.)

From the get-go, it's all been
a mystery. But we like answers,
even if we have to make up our own.
What if we're just supposed to
enjoy the mystery?