A Failed God

He dwelt here for a while,

once for a week, some say,

thirty years another time,

 

and walked, tramped,

hitchhiked through the dirt,

the grit, the orgasms,

the commerce, the sorrow, the hate,

 

the creaking mortality

that we’ve dug up

for the fertile sun.

 

And perhaps he puzzled over

how to set it right,

 

but found such beauty

in the way the sunflowers

and the giraffes

bow their heads and die.

 

And so he left,

that brooding god,

and I don’t think he’s been back.

 

Out there, beyond the

vast black of all the eyelids

closed in prayer, he wanders,

 

sowing galaxies that just

bloom more solitude,

casting new worlds

that always fail:

 

this one too barren or too fecund,

or too much ice or too much fire,

this one’s buckled rings,

 

this one’s moons will collide

in one billion years.

 

With calloused hands

he pulls them from the mold,

with potter’s hands,

sets them spinning,

 

dreaming one day

he’ll get it right.

 

Copyright, Ricky Barrow 2014

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s