If there is a god, my question to God is why?

If there is a god, my question to God is why?

They knelt and whispered of a holy spark,
A seed of light bestowed by hands divine,
That I was crafted in the quiet dark
To hold a sacred gift, a grand design.
They told me I was chosen, blessed, and bright,
A vessel for the beauty I could make,
Yet as I reached to pull the morning light,
He watched the very world I loved, unmake.

If He is love, then why the ash and bone?
Why did the garden wither at my feet?
I built my temple stone by heavy stone,
Only to find the ruins incomplete.
And those who claimed to guard the sacred flame,
Were those who held the stones to cast at me;
They carved my skin with every jagged name,
A twisted mark of their hypocrisy.

They branded me a sickness in the blood,
A broken gear inside the perfect clock,
They dragged my spirit through the winter mud,
And turned the key inside a hollow lock.
I was the defect, so the judges cried,
The smudge upon the glass, the rot within,
Until the spark they praised began to hide,
Beneath the weight of their imagined sin.

So tell me, is the gift a poisoned well?
A tether meant to drag me through the mire?
To build a heaven only for a hell,
And feed my life into the common fire?
If I am made of God, then God is strange—
To bless the art, but break the artist's heart,
To give the power to arrange and change,
Then tear the masterpiece and me apart.