A Letter Unto Myth
I don't believe in you.
Jesus, the Lord, Vishnu,
Shiva, Loki, Thor,
Horus, Ra, and more.
Today, when I tasted desperation,
I almost pretended at adoration;
to get a favor, to finally find some aid,
I almost lied, almost faked, almost prayed.
To pray to one I know not to be?
Profane, to not only you, also me.
To you, in believing solely for the sake of want,
to me, in changing for the sake of some divine font.
So, even though I hold on to faith's lacking,
grant me just this one instance of backing.
Let me evince the ire behind my shame,
all the hatred behind the flame.
Nineteen poems about the same heartbreak,
about the one girl who's made me truly ache;
more than a tenth of all I've written,
to show exactly how hard I was bitten.
Yet for every one, I'd triple them all:
the woman, pain, poems, sorrow's call,
if I never had to spend another day
with those whose creed I no longer say.
I haven't seen my family in almost two years,
thanks to men with nothing between their ears.
I've never felt more alone, been more betrayed,
never had more regret or larger mistakes made.
Today, I defied them, for what I think is right.
They should have learned that some will fight.
Yet despite my bravado, my perceived cogence, I lost;
just one more injustice, one more line they've crossed.
I thought the one I went to unlike the rest,
before today saw him as different, the best.
Now I understand where wrong was my aim;
I shouldn't have expected aught but the same.
For that was the help I almost asked for,
one small victory against the Corps.
Oh, the chance one time to put it right,
impetus to be, change to incite.
You've always known my stance on your existence,
and to your myriad followers my resistance;
that should stress these circumstances' full weight,
that to you I might, even hastily, think to supplicate.
Copyright © Andy Sprouse