The Accuser
By Dave
God speaks in storms,
His voice a thunderclap
that splits the mast,
His breath the gale
that tears the sails to ribbons.
“You are Jonah,”
He declares,
“the cursed one,
the drag upon this ship.”
But sailors know the sea,
its capricious moods,
its love for the cruel theater of blame.
When the wind howls and the hull groans,
it is not the stars we look to
but each other,
searching for the Jonah among us,
the one whose presence stirs the wrath of the deep.
We’ve cast lots before,
watched men thrown to the waves,
their screams lost to the crash of surf.
The superstition clings like salt on skin,
a bitter taste in every breath.
But who decides the Jonah?
Who names the anchor
dragging the ship to ruin?
It is not the sea—
it is fear.
And this God,
this storm-caller,
wears the guise of the wind.
His accusations lash like ropes,
binding wrists,
dragging me to the deck.
The crew looks at me with hollow eyes,
desperate for calm,
for the storm’s roar to cease.
And He, the great deceiver,
stirs their terror like the tides,
makes them see me as the curse.
But I am no Jonah.
I am no deadweight,
no shadow on the prow.
I am the sailor who knows the rigging,
the one who hauls the lines,
who stands firm at the helm
when others falter.
Let Him send His squalls,
His waves that break like leviathans
against my ship.
I will not go quietly
into the hungry maw of the sea.
I will not be thrown
to soothe their fears,
to please a God who thrives on chaos.
This God—
this storm—
is no captain,
no guiding light.
He is the mutiny in the night,
the whisper that pits sailor against sailor,
the unseen hand that frays the ropes.
He does not command the sea;
He poisons it.
The rigging moans,
the timbers creak,
but I hold the wheel.
I keep my eyes on the horizon,
where the stars still shine
beyond His wrath.
If He is the storm,
then I am the mariner,
a sailor who knows the tides,
the roll of the deck beneath my feet,
the way a ship can groan but still endure.
I will not bow to His thunder,
nor sink beneath His waves.
I will chart my course
through this tempest,
past His accusations,
beyond His grasp.
I will not be His Jonah,
not the scapegoat of this vessel,
nor the offering to His rage.
Let Him howl,
let the waves rise like mountains.
I will sail on,
a lone ship defying the storm,
carving a path
through waters even He cannot command.