Fragmented

Festive season is to be dreaded.
A woman departed from her home,
now pray tell me,
Who will fill up that void?
Death slaps us. Nay, deals us blows.
By the time we get to our feet,
Later to our senses,
The festive season is over.
The Sexton washes up the church.
The pastor tries to get some sleep.
The crib broken, the star lost its light.
We muster up a little courage
To wish everyone a happy New year.
And the year is long gone.
Calendars are weapons, its edges
Smoothened by words from the
Good book that nobody reads.
Fear not, it says. Not even a little.
Fear God? What is there to fear him?
He let the world loose, sent his son
As a baby, orchestrated a baby genocide.
While scholars pored over their dusty
Books to see if there is meaning,
There were already wars raging.
Women were raped and plundered
And discarded by the garbage dump.
Lord, if this is your idea of ‘festive’
#metoo. Like the prophet of old,
You have raped me. Totally!
And I shall pass the verdict now.
My Lord, my God, you’re free now.