There are some who speak of the earth
As merely a place to wander and decay
Waiting for the moment when all that can be touched has been properly disposed of.
When songs and stories are all that exist between spaceless ghosts.
They speak of G-d's creation,
This beautiful universe,
As though it were simply something whipped together some Monday morning because maybe G-d had an appiontment on Sunday and needed a place to leave the kids.
A playpen.
And all his boundless exercises in ultimate creativity are nothing but counting beads
Stuffed animals
And a sky full of shinning stars rotating upon a mobile.
The deep dark earth with feeds and nurtures all plants is filler
And maybe a lucky 6 ft between us and the waiting corpses.
Each dream i dream,
Each miracle I express
Is merely a game to entertain myself.
If I play it well daddy will be pleased when he returns.
He will award me by lifting me from my beautiful crib and letting me crawl about his mysterious kingdom for eternity.
Daddy,
Your gifts are wonderful.
But not for a second can I believe what my brothers and sister have told me.
Under your nose theyve begun telling us all that our lives matter little.
That all time now is just a test run for the big picture.
They speak of the wings you whisper to me through earthy sensations as though they are inconsequential to their writen word.
They are unable to see the soul in sound.
They tell me to shut my eyes, wait for a surprise.
But secretly,
I believe you are here now.
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