The Sculptor's Enigma.

A man whose skilled hands have now created an evil that can't be exorcised from our minds.

"But it was you, who made me."

A vessel to it's potter. A flower to it's gardener. A child to his mother.

A God to the man who sculpted him.

Not from earth, but from his incapability to hold the power of life and death, his failure to tame nature and it's disciples. And from his lack of responsibility and love towards his people, he planted the seed of an idea of a God in-order to plant the concept of a past and a future in the minds of his peers, to keep them shackled in the chains of religion, to forever bow their heads to a sculpture of hope and deception, to teach them to close their eyes when they are afraid, to make the candles weary of forever holding the flame to light the unpainted portrait of God.

Yet, the man forgot to sculpt a heart for the God that he created.

The God became unforgivably like man.

The God lusted like man, filth had rotten his mind.

The God gambled like man, greed had spun him in endless, spiral circles.

The God, sinned like man.

An almighty bystander.

A God who relishes in death and bathes in suffering, drinking in the filthy flesh of worn hearts.

He becomes you, and me.

And how stupid we look.

Because it was us who created him.