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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
Copyright ©
Robert Martines
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