Out Like a Lamb

Stumped

Who was she who gave birth to the heavens and earth,
pictured always as old, white, and male?
Who are they to agree on the visage you see
when you pull back divinity's veil?

Who indeed holds the key (here's a clue - it's not me)
to the answers of devil and god?
Who is captive? Who's free? Who is blind? Who can see
if a wink is as good as a nod?

Who are we to insist on erasing the mist
of the mystery of after we die?
Who are they to convey every time that they pray
they own truth, and all else is a lie?

Who am I now to say there's a much better way
as if sure of the right and the wrong?
I'm just human, like you. Sometimes all you can do
is admit you were stumped all along.


note ▼

April 21—Poem based on a question
My original last line (because I am writing this on 4/20) was:
"is to reach for a match - and the bong."