Saturday, September 19, 2009

Symptons of God

Just raise your arm and I'll remove the rib. It won't be that bad. I'll do it fast.

She busied herself tracing the scars on her fingers. Burned out lanterns in empty rooms. She wrote her letters to god. In the big, cursive script of a a child yet to encounter the devil.

She asked her whys and her hows. Just as certain that she was the first to try as all the billions prior. Jump ropes the voices muttered as she examined the ink on her aging letters to him.

Gods are like gravity. They pull us down. When we need it and when we don't. Fists to big to resist. Full of ladders that always fall short of the heavens.

She dreams of when he was a child. A lost infant overwhelmed with the world he would create. Born into the nothing he would make real.

From the blood of his mother's womb. The child spat forth. Eager to conquer the despot called time. Who was she. The woman that birthed us god. Why does no one ask. Where he is. Where he comes from. Why he's so hard to find.


  1. i wonder if there's really a trail left for us to follow, or if it's only trailmix we've been given...

  2. there is only what we imagine there to be.