God was murdered.

The scene of the crime was not cordoned off with tape
and guarded by armed uniforms;
it was bordered by the intricately decorated walls
of churches, mosques, temples and shrines
and guarded by priests, armed with promises of nirvana.

The weapon was not merely a knife, a gun or an explosive,
that accounted for the lives you took in his name-
in defence and reverence for Him;
the culprit was in every word that escaped your lips,
dripping with spite, hatred and anger,
killing before it even had the opportunity to strike.

The autopsy revealed that He had been injured
not once, but repeatedly.
His heart was bleeding,
His blood had run cold;
every wound you inflicted on your victims
was reflected in His tattered body,

His last words were pleading,
begging you to stop.

The burial was an unusual one,
there were no tears of remorse or anguish,
no lamentations or reprovals;
no, only proclamations of power and superiority
in the face of fear,
and arrogant claims of responsibility for the holy atrocities.

God was murdered,
you killed your own God.

“Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God.” -Elie Wiesel.


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