Talking To God. Poem by Ben Wallace

Dear God, if you are there, you'll hear me.
Why must you take good, honest men and make Christians out of them?
I know discovering faith is fair enough.
And I know Len had been looking for a long time,
but why didn't you let him turn to one of your other faces?
Faith turns many a man into nothing but a preacher, hell,
he doesn't even use your proper name.

'Oh G-d.'
He writes.

Like the emittance of a single letter with relinquish the sin,
I have no problems in talking to you, because I know people who know you,
so I'd kinda say you're a mutual acquaintance, but you know I don't follow you.
Now, this letter isn't all about Len, no, this is about others too,
like how some of them need your help, even if they swear blind not to believe in you.
I figured I'd ask you, because I tried to help and they didn't listen to me
and apparently, you're bigger than me, they might respond better to you.

'Oh G-d'
He writes.

It's strange to be sat here, writing this letter to you, God.
I don't even know if you're there, I suppose that if you took offence to this
you could suddenly strike me down with palsy, make my hands shake so badly
that I cannot write again, but as all seems well, I guess I've not hit any major sore spots.
Like I said earlier, I have friends who know you, or at least believe you're there for them, that's cool, I don't mind that they think I'm going to hell because I'm a heathen,
I'd vouch for them before the Gods I know, they said they'd do the same for me, before you.
What are my chances, do you reckon?

'Oh G-d'
He writes.

I'm gonna make you promise me something, don't let her do what she said she was going to,
I'll miss her, lots of people will miss her.
Give her some small comforts, till she can realise that she's OK and that she'll survive,
even if her life seems dark and her roads seem endless.
Anyway, I'm rambling, I'm sure you've got better things to do with your time,
even if you're not listening to this, thanks anyway God, I appreciated the concept of
you taking time out to listen to me, if you did. See you around, maybe.

'Oh G-d'
He writes.

Oddly, the figure then furrows his brow, awkwardly makes the sign of the cross over himself then the sign of the hammer, shakes his head and walks away from the fresco in the Sistine chapel, utterly bemused that he just listen to himself talking to God.

The small piece of paper in his hand reads;

--
Oh God


Oh God


Oh God


Oh God.
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