When God finally wakes back up,
To cast his judgement down,
In the disappointing gaze,
Only a Father-to-me could muster,
He won’t find me worthy or wanting,
Because he won’t find me at all,
Except in the form of an accounting error,
A blip in the books,
Only existing by accident,
Begging for erasure by its very nature.
He’ll see the Lot of You, though,
And he won’t be happy or sad,
Justly full of disdain,
Like a baker who forgot to add that
Missing ingredient,
After the oven dings.
Don’t cry for me,
As if you could without
Knowing my name,
Because I’ve been prepared,
Intrinsically and through
Perpetual silence gifted as swaddling clothes,
For the world to forget me,
Unforgiven for the sins of my Father.
The Great Bastard will give me,
In the end as in the beginning,
Only what my soul was born to deserve:
Obliviating freedom.
Post-Neology 