Exodus Within

I stood at the Nile’s edge,

where papyrus whispers spoke of gods

and the sun’s eternal hymn burned the sands.

A pharaoh of faith once ruled my heart,

his commandments etched in granite beliefs—

unyielding, immutable, divine.

The pyramids of my certainty loomed tall,

each stone a doctrine laid by trembling hands.

But time is a desert wind,

and the shifting dunes of doubt

unveiled cracks beneath the weight of it all.

The river parted—not by rod or miracle—

but by the quiet rebellion of questions,

the sacred unraveling of hieroglyphic truths

chiseled into my mind since birth.

Did Ra truly pull the sun across the sky?

Did Yahweh? Did anyone?

I wandered through my inner Sinai,

the golden calf of conformity

melting in the fire of my inquiry.

Each step felt both exile and exodus,

as if leaving Egypt was also leaving me.

And yet, amidst the ruins of belief,

I found not desolation but liberation—

a tomb emptied of gods,

its treasures no longer bound in death.

I am the scribe now,

writing my own Book of Life

on the unblemished scroll of the present.

The Nile flows still,

its waters unclaimed by any deity.

The pyramids crumble,

but the stars remain timeless.

In their light, I see the truth:

freedom is not promised by gods—

it is carved by hands unafraid to let go.