Poetic Ramblings: It Might Simply Be Your Cosmic Drama, But…

I’ve heard it said—

And maybe it really is true—

That all this is simply a play,

Your Cosmic Drama,

Being staged (perhaps since eternity past)

For Your own amusement

(Otherwise, I imagine

That You might likely find

It oh so tearfully boring,

Not knowing how to pass time).

And it might be said, that, therefore,

We should recognize it as simply a cleverly managed illusion

To be taken only relatively seriously at best,

And as ultimately and really unreal,

And, realizing it to be so, to remain detached, unaffected, unruffled,

An unperturbed witness.

 

It might well be true,

And this might be eminently sensible advice,

But even so,

Could I please request You

To kindly tone down the nasty scenes of Your drama,

Or, better still, to excise them altogether,

At least in the part of the cosmos

Where You’ve planted me?

(In requesting so,

You might say I’m being selfish,

And yes, I readily confess,

I probably am!)

 

I mean, it’s terribly painful, You do know,

To see, read or hear,

Things—all scenes in Your grand play—

Painful, disgusting,

Day after day, repeated unceasingly:

Men murdering men in Your name,

And for creed, community, country and more,

Entire generations being poisoned

With noxious propaganda

To hate, target and destroy.

And only You know how many million birds and animals,

Slaughtered each day for human delectation,

Even by those who claim to be Your ardent devotees,

In an unrecognised genocide.

 

A great many more such acts in Your Divine drama I could recount—

It might fill a tome, or even an entire library or two—

But I’ll stop here, for You know it all Yourself,

Better than everyone else does or ever could,

And so, there’s no need for me to tell You more

(If I did, it might add to my stock of negative deeds, Noted in a record-book that You might maintain,

Simply by listing them here,

Or even just by thinking of them,

Which, in turn, might make things worse for myself,

In this or some future existence).

 

“Come on, child, it’s only a drama,” You might say,

In an effort to calm me down.

“Just be a spectator and don’t get involved,” You might advise,

“Relax comfortably in your seat in My theatre,

And simply watch the game go by.”

 

But I make so bold as to tell You

(Intuitively knowing that You’ll merrily wink

At what some might brand as my ‘blasphemous temerity’):

“I don’t always find Your drama entertaining or interesting (even if You might).

Had You asked me, I might have been able to suggest

Some other ways for You to amuse Yourself,

To keep Yourself suitably engaged,

Than this grand drama of Yours,

Where one species lives off another,

And where the 'Crown' of Your Creation

Does all that You well know it does."

Sometimes, I’d like to hide behind the curtains

So that I see nothing,

Or, better still, slip out of Your theatre unnoticed,

For a break, a breather, a cold drink or a coffee and some popcorn,

And maybe come back in when Your drama moves on

To some cheerful scene,

And then resume my seat

(But only if You insist I must,

For I do know that, all said and done,

It's You alone who knows what's best,

And also that if I'm not

To collapse in complete despair,

There's no way but to understand

That this is all a mere game,

Your Cosmic Drama,

Being staged for Your own delight).