My God died in a stampede today

My God died in a stampede today, 

For he was busy laughing at an illicit joke, 

Licking off darkness from the humor he chewed on. 

On Sundays he takes a rebirth to investigate the cause of deteriorated culture in the country.  

On Mondays he mourns with the women securely stored

under fallacious charge sheets and morgue registers.  

On Tuesdays he's everywhere 

As metal miniatures sold at a fixed price, 

As mannequins of mankind wearing plastic garlands under rearview mirrors, 

As guilt within the minds of all men groping girls in a public transport—unavailable!

On Wednesdays, God is taking a tour of the holiest ceremony  

Watching all sins float up as defecate on his favorite river.

On Thursday he cleans up his lens and watches people

selling JPEGs of faith titled "bathing women at the holiest ceremony—uncensored".

On Fridays, God stinks of diclofenac 

after carrying all the burden of all politicians' promises for the week.

On Saturdays, his devotees line up with offerings 

Capsules of cacophony from "Prime time debates," 

While he heads toward the railway station to confront a comedian  

And dies in a stampede of religion.

He regrets his creativity, then silently devours his last supper, 

lonely and broken.

- Snigdha