Sometimes a poem is not something for the poet to be proud of. Often this is when they speak most truly for themselves being unhinged from the wills of an artist who has surrendered to being a messenger. In my philosophical writings I am clever and I can curve my passion but for a poem to fully speak I have to remove this judgement, this anticipation of a counter-attack and yield to the feeling lest it leaves me for another artist. The following poem makes me cringe in a way. I love Stephen Fry but there is no denying I have a longstanding passion against the Atheist Delusion of which this poem is a true mirror. I love this poem though it hurts me in ways. I hope I can someday learn to love and accept this school of thought but for now I cannot help that every time it makes an old curmudgeon of me.

Spit out your dummy Stephen Fry
It seems this baby wants to cry
Life’s not fair why must it be so:
That deaths do come and wounds do grow?
Where is the Mother to wipe tears away
Where is the Father to evil to say:
Play fair, be nice and be polite too

A God’s love’s not coddling to a baby’s coo
What it is is that you lack the belly
To stomach life so you whine on the telly
We atheists say that that’s not fair
If God really loved us he’d show he cared
The same as a mother shuts up her child
Shoves a tit in his mouth but is he not then defiled?

The love of God is wild, is fire
It leaves us yearn, it leaves us tire
Knowing that these are the conditions of Life
He loves us even through the darkest strife
Not like a father nor like a mother
But as the flip side of a coin, eternally Other
A mystery mirror of ourself in the night
Where the candle of Psyche burns eternally bright

You seek a god that will treat you as his boy
You’ve gotten one whose love’s not through toys
But who is wont to let life unfold
From the depths of lead to the height of gold
He loves you more than to lick your wounds
Knowing that this would leave you enwombed.

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