Crushed by mistakes infinite,

made over one day too many,

he falters with erratic heart

to continue being His own shadow.

Master of all universes and fates,

not a guardian or friend to any,

only an onlooker or a stranger in passing,

though He likes not what He sees.

Silent tears run down his face

as he feels the last turn of Earth

and he knows no longer what to do;

only a flicker of hope unimagined

flashes through His immortal memory

in the dark of the summer night;

and so God bows his head and prays,

quietly wishing for a better Him

to undo what can not be done

because while He is the All-Father,

his sons and creation He failed,

abandoned, when He was most needed.

Guilt chips at His soul every day,

and so He does what He knows best:

forgets and leaves without a trace,

becomes human, one of the many;

body hurt and aching, every joint creaking,

reminding him what he'd rather forget.

But humanity is stubborn about pain.

Now he knows one can never leave,

or catch a break, or live in peace

because one is tied up to His image,

needing forgivness, but no one to give it;

the cycle of suffering continues unchecked:

crimson blood keeps flowing eternally

through infected wounds older than time

and His once bright grace keeps draining,

leaking out of the many cracks in his self.

Weary and battered, he marches forward,

missing His life and hating it both,

wanting to be overcome by oblivion,

yet not wanting to forget His home:

the worshipping warmth of his children,

every kind look whenever they gazed at Him

and shouted His name as a prayer holy,

now just a broken whisper of the desperate

because there is no more God,

only a sad little man tired of living,

burdened by a choice long ago made.