Holy Ghost

He has a god. It's like his appendix:
Useless, but there. He doesn't pray.
Well, he does on the two days he
Goes to church, Christmas and Easter,
When all of the others have bowed
Their heads and closed their eyes.
His universe seems to work fine
On its own, so, while god may
Have made it, it hums unattended,
Somewhat like a furnace, and
His god's at rest, a thing in a
Place no one sees, maybe reading,
Reliving the old days of famines
And floods. Is it lonely? It
Could be, he thinks. It could
Want him to call it, the way
That he did before bed, as a
Child, as his mom demanded.
Back then, what now hums
Seemed to shudder and roar,
And he found satisfaction
In knowing that his god was
Near and could hear him,
And subtly help him, changing
Creation in small, godly ways.
These days, he questions such
Forms of assistance. His god,
Though not dead, is just there.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 18 times
Written on 2013-03-06 at 18:44

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