Only a suffering god can help

Heavier than the heaviest weight
waits the acceptance of no beginning
no cause, no culpability
only a curse without an inscribing sorcerer
without a scapegoat to punish
and yet we’re tasked to live anyway
knowing only what we choose to know
while forgetting that we chose.

Is that even knowing?

The strong gods have fled
with their enchantments saturating
every discipline and gift
every precinct and mood
with meaning beyond necessity: gone
giving way for every entry
to become one dimension
of thought, of world
with little being left to live
and we blame all and none.

Is there even a world?

Now, only a suffering god can help
a weak god without explanations
without riddles for hierophants
or canons for high priests
priests promising revenge in the end
in the end promising anything
to make life something
it isn’t and can’t be.

Is there ever an end?

A suffering god
of mystery for identity
of all names and none
bearing all imprecations
whispering all benedictions
for an indifferent world of difference
and distance between the real and the imaginary
between hope and nothing.

Is there really nothing?

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