Skeptical

Is that you, God,
peering through the crap?
Is that muck of life truly you in all your glory,
or is it me kicking my dirt in your direction while you
as the gardener examine how to make good use of such shi*?

Is that you, God,
burning within my core?
Is it your holy restlessness that drives me
or is this my own anxiety and fear causing trouble,
keeping me on my toes in a dance of agitation and discontent?

Is that you, God,
leading in the wilderness?
Are you in those clouds I am chasing
or is it an illusion of desire and ambition in my eyes,
a desperate need for the fog to bear some deep meaning?

Is that you, God,
blustering and blowing with change?
Are you the wind that spins and disorients me
or is it just a bunch of hot air: my own combined with
the nonsensical whims and furious cyclones of this world?

Is that you, God?
Will you mind terribly if I choose
to sit here in safe retreat until you become clear?

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