Diaries of an atheist

Just a poem, for Mr. Ernest Hemingway.

Diaries of an atheist

It does not matter, not any more

To ask for more, or accept less

Words are scrambled, inside all books

And meanings turned into a mess

What was written, in all the letters

They kept on sending with no address?

How wrath of Gods, whom they created

Could be changed, to bestow a bless?

Are signs of faith, kissing the metal?

Or touching robes, with caress?

How can a mediator absolve my sins

Behind a grill, if I confess?

There is no difference, between rituals

Ancients were doing, and ours, I guess

For whom the bell tolls, Mister Hemingway?

Is not a question, it's everything else.