So, this is godhood. This is how it works.
It's dreaming up a world and killing it,
Abandoning the foibles and the quirks
Of crushed-together crumblings and bits,
Then sweeping out the wreckage with a curse
And carving out another fever dream.
It's wandering a mindscape universe
And sifting through the crop to find the cream
So you can save it while you burn the rest,
Just for the room to have another try.
The lovelies you've been cradling close to chest?
In time you'll cast them off to wilt and die
But for a while they're almost what you need.
Go raze the field and plant another seed.

The market was empty,
if not for my voice,
as I crooned my sermon
as an effortless remedy.

Echoes are still validation.
The crowd had no choice,
but to take in a message
of my self-flagellation.

The instrument cracked
as my voice became hoarse;
each syllable sprang
with the skin off my back.

Per chance did you hear
that my music doth ****?
If you survived its sound,
it must not have been near.

“My dream date is after we’ve already been dating for a few months and decide to go out on the town. We meet a cute guy, buy him drinks, and spend the next few hours laughing together and maybe slaying it at a karaoke bar. Afterwards we invite him back to my place and get into some role play. I become Israel, he Palestine, and you The Goddess that helps them finally come together, even though Israel has to bend over a little bit to make it happen.

Confession: this is a dream date. I have to become really committed to physical therapy again in order to get my singing voice back for karaoke and I live with old country people so it’d have to be at your place.”

Pale wisps trailed in front of a rounded moon
softening further the light
blanketing the white stones
of those who had departed too soon.

Here they lay in their shrouds
formed by absence,
the living who are not granted
darkness and gentle clouds.