I told her I wasn't sure if I believe in God.
It wasn't a lie but it wasn't a complete truth either.
I suppose that's a sin.
I suppose I'll go to hell for that, that and a million other wonderful mistakes.

She works in mysterious ways these days.
Like a door to door salesman, she is shut out of lives again and again.

The angelic should have found her on an empty stomach.
It's funny she says, "Feeling so full at one moment."
Slow motion and tumbleweeds, and from here on out she's hollow.
That angel ended up turning to clever lyrics and melodies through wire speakers.

Will anything make us see?
"Make me see."
Life without is like lucid dreams.
Every day skating through the motions half awake and completely asleep.
I am without, I always have been.

But I don't mind the ice.
I enjoy winters and lakes of fire, oxymorons and alliteration.

My feet poking through his teeth while my back is filleted over and over.
Judas on my left, Brutus on my right and me stuck in the middle, a clown of circumstance.

All this for a mistake, or is it all this for a life lived?

It's easy to believe in a Hell, in a pusher as opposed to a savior.

So, ask me again.
"Do you believe in God?"
It's not as easy as one would imagine.

I imagine this is hell.
"Mortality is hell, isn't it?"
The simple certainty of death, is hell.
That is my belief.

"Is there a God?"
Sure, but she isn't here.
She's at home washing the old man's dishes and ironing his clothes.
St. Lucifer and Beelzebub, making the little lady run to the market for coals while flames run down their throats, watching Sunday afternoon football.

Now I ask you.
"What's more conceivable, an all knowing being that created everything we have ever known or an abusive husband with a passion for pigskin?"
The latter seems to ring true.