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Maggie Mae

by Maria Kintner

Like the song.

You marvel me with your creativity.
To create such an existance, hanging in space;
a giant ticking clock, set to alarm at Your
return.

You write the boundries, draw the lines.
The high road is Yours.

And the grass grows greener,
the oceans and rivers continue to flow,
while the rain drenches away drought.
Everything contained in the palm of Your hand.

But when a bloody child is forgotten,
in the hidden underground to the paths of Hell,
are You still caring for birds that sing?
Do You dot Your skies with yet more burning
gasses, and freeze the air for rainbows that dance
to sounds?

Who am I to ask You why? To ask You the reason
for a toddler's incomprehensible suffering,
while the stock market crashes, and people pray
for money to pay back the debtors for purchases
they never needed; bought with money they didn't have.

No one thinks to look in the back room,
where little arms are held out for hope.
Were Your angels there then, watching in vain sadness
while her soul was mastecated alive, and
she endured the torture You promised to have
endured for us all?

I am an insolent child, angry, without understanding.
I suppose I don't deserve an explanation.

Vengence is Mine...

It had better be.

08/28/2007

Author's Note: It's things like the events of today that make me question my faith.

Posted on 08/28/2007
Copyright © 2024 Maria Kintner

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