A lonely god
sits and waits
for dust
to rise like
smoke.
A weaver threads
his loom of life
with spun gold:
a glorious
display --
a sower strews
his seeds by hand;
mother earth lets them
take root.
The phoenix rises
from the ash,
all aflame
and feathers red.
And still the
lonely god does wait
for breath to take
and keep him
company.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 1:41 PM UTC
A lonely god
sits and waits
for dust
to rise like
smoke.
A weaver threads
his loom of life
with spun gold:
a glorious
display --
a sower strews
his seeds by hand;
mother earth lets them
take root.
The phoenix rises
from the ash,
all aflame
and feathers red.
And still the
lonely god does wait
for breath to take
and keep him
company.