The God We Make, the Truth We Forget

 

I once believed in nothing more
Than what my hands could earn and store.
Yet when the night grew sharp with need,
I whispered hope like desperate creed.


I did not pray-I would not kneel,
I only asked the dark to heal.
I spoke old words I half-denied,
And crossed my heart, then crossed my pride.


And something answered. Not a name,
Not fire nor voice nor holy flame-
But doors unlocked, and paths appeared,
And weight fell off what I had feared.


I took the gifts with steady hands,
Called them luck, called them plans.
I said, This world is mine alone,
No unseen help, no debts unknown.


Thus I built a god without a face,
Fed it reason, fed it praise.
A quiet god of borrowed might,
Born of hunger, crowned by spite.


It asked no love, it asked no grace,
Only that I erase the trace
Of wonder, mystery, and awe-
That I deny what moved me raw.


And slowly then, the colors thinned,
The warmth withdrew from where I’d been.
Not struck by curse nor punished wrong-
The world just stopped singing its song.


I learned too late what disbelief
Can be when worn like sharpened sheath:
Not absence of the sacred flame,
But fear of owing what we claim.


For superstition kneels in need
Then scoffs when miracles succeed.
It uses dark, it uses light,
Then calls itself the source of sight.


But truth is quieter than doubt,
It does not force-it waits us out.
It asks one thing, both small and grave:
To name the help we dared to take.

So now I stand, no longer sealed,
No longer needing truth concealed.
I say aloud what pride denied-
I was not lone. I was supplied.

Call it chance, or mind, or grace,
Or threads unseen that time can’t trace-
But something met me where I stood
And answered need with something good.

If faith is this, then let it stay:
Not blind belief, not fear’s display-
But humble sight, and open hands,
And thanks that no god demands.

For what we lose when we deny
Is not some power in the sky-
It is the wonder that makes whole
The fragile, reaching heart of man