If God is fictional, then who is laughing at us?
I sing of laughter- the sound of southern accents falling through the cracks of racism-
stomping on the front porch of freedom.
I sing of past times- grandmothers who cut cantaloupe and light long white cigarettes even in the winter time.
They come to me like lotuses- like hidden hickeys and gray town secrets.
I sing of beauty- of those things not so beautiful, like forgotten souls- those lost in dark forests- those struggling through war times.
God is laughing at me and I don’t care.
I sing of the choirs’ of roses
The hands of diversity
Clasped in times of torture- in times where lives are taken and things don’t come so easily.
I sing of rainwater- broken roof tops caving in like somehow there are no homes,
No homes anywhere.
There you are scared and silent
Scarred and sacred
Over and done with you say
God is laughing at us,
Everyone is laughing at us.