God Made Me A Door

Maybe one day, when silence is loud enough to hear, we’ll open the door instead of stacking bodies. They ask, “Where’s God?” when the blood hits the floor— as if He hadn’t carved light into every corner before. But truth is, He built the door. And we locked it. Stacked our fears like bricks and blocked it— then cried when no light shined through. This was never a flaw in the plan, just a flaw in the hands of man. Given a garden, we bought a shovel. Given a Son… we played holy telephone. Game took too long. Judge is dead. And God didn’t fail— but we found a way to sell mirrors and bend love, just to justify hell. God bought me a five-dollar door. And my thoughts have me stuck on this side. I punched a hole through it— light shines through so properly, stands no chance against the dust in here. Every once in a while, somebody comes to visit me. And they stack up. Weather is overcast. And the light becomes a mystery. The cracks in the door no longer glow. Too many bodies blocking the rays. I can’t blame the builder for how we fill these hallways