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Doomed to die, man invents a God,
To deny that death wastes him in the sod.
How could his thoughts collected simply die,
How could this be without knowing why.
Yet death still takes him to an earthly grave,
The strong, the weak, the stubborn, and the brave,
Lost in a mystery they can't ever solve,
Thus create a God with an immortal soul,
Which gives them hope that they will never die,
And call it faith, lest it be called a lie.
For yet superstitious men fear to be alone,
And shun in vanity the truth that is unknown.
For self discovery tells us that we might,
Be truly wrong when thinking we are right.
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