We talk ourselves out of Godhood
providing as evidence
a brief biography,
the myopic, illusory improvisation
of our latest mortal endeavor.
We stagger lifelong under the terrible onus
of guilt and regret rather than let go
the antithetical notions of autonomy
and virtue, liberty and triumph.
So stage struck are we, enamored
of the gallant figure we cut
in our fantasies and reflections,
our roles of suffering
we dutifully perform,
unwilling to take a backseat;
have our stage name forever struck
from the program and marquee.
O child of God, step off the edge
of the stage and tumble into oblivion.