It was God long before it was anything else,
It was burnt flesh,
And the rending of one's soul,
It was Picasso and Monet,
And paint-stained mahagony
On your tattered bedroom floor.
When it comes down to it,
We are mostly just lost and lonesome,
And searching for the truth
In the folds of each others' tongues.
We are grass stains and scraped knees,
We are false advertising.
Secretly, I am vehement,
And I hate you,
But we're addicted to the things we hate,
We are poor and merciless,
And the meaning of God has been smothered
Along with beauty and inferences.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is,
Buried in the roots of every family Bible
There is at least one heathen
And a thousand infidels,
Just like you.

There are
Many things of Value
To everyone
But me.