Divine Inanity

I used to write poetry some time ago. Used to because these days I don't write anything apart from mediocre copy and superlative grocery lists. But today I read some of the stuff I'd written and kept secret all this while. Then I decided to post some of the poems in order to feel that I've earned the right to an evil smirk. Here's one now:

They build you temples,
Mosques, churches,
Even complicated sounding places
Like synagogues, imagine that.
They look to you
With hope, everyday
Believing that every little sorrow
In you, will be assuaged.
Kindness, mercy, love, wisdom
Are contained in you, they think.
Incense, flowers, wafers, wine
Small things to get you
To notice, to care.
But you keep laughing,
Hurting and watching,
Lashing out at the very fools
Who then grasp you closer still,
Wondering why the gashes
Keep working deeper in.

One day you will be found out
For what you really are.
No benevolent mother, or magnanimous father.
Just a vicious child, with more toys
Than he knows what to do with.
I wonder if I should tell them
Maybe get stoned to an early demise.
But lift the mists in the process
Of them wondering why.
I only hold my tongue because
Wilful child or not,
In you lies the hope
That they hold on to,
The possibility of a morning
A little less blue.
It's not you that I bow to,
You're a child of cruel whim, destructive fantasy.
I bow to the ones
Who know no better than
To put all their faith, their trust,
Their hope, everything in you.
Their faith moves
My mountain everyday
So you keep playing, and I let you be,
Needless delusion, futile, necessary.