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Wayward Creator

God is following me to the grave:

a holy hiker fond of impermanence.

If you were to ask him about it,

he’d say that life is incomplete without

the chase of cessation.

He could give you all sorts of monologues on how

the meek and obedient pursuit of an ending

is the underlying engine of all mankind.

God is conducting this study on the “happily ever afters” of Planet Earth.

He’s got a white lab coat and everything,

but still hasn’t gotten the hang of wearing closed-toe shoes.

He’s gathering the bulk of his data from the horizon line.

God is following me to the grave,

a holy shadow with a knife

fastened to his waist.

He could hurt me real bad

(that’s omnipotence),

but the blade is always far too sticky and

occupied with fruit to make a real

dent in anything.

When he’s not probing the anatomy of a happy ending,

God climbs peach and cherry trees.

He’s known to hold a holy fort in such sweet groves.

Like pits of cherries,

God’s knees are all bruised black and violet.

Never from praying,

wine-colored knees are just proof of the bounty.

God is following me to the grave,

a holy vagabond who

has it bad for the flesh of Planet Earth’s impermanence.


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