god's plaything -
what is the colour of rain
that paints this city
with the havoc that once
trouble wreaked over
our sorriness?

god's no god
until he is god
in someone's throne
and i may be a fool.
he is a cool cat rolling
thunderously over the silence
of our homes or
perhaps a soldier
marching his way
homeward amid
the tatterdemalion
of days.

god's temple
is the body and a body's
oblivious of this -
    god knows no "sigue sigue"
              nor "sputnik"
       nor piercing the helm
       cerebrally

god's no fool to goad any gambit
or watch the wane of old solace.
or is it that i am
a leitmotif and my peccadilloes
are a path's adagio towards contrite?

god voyeurs over the
windowless hours
of my sanity's eclipse
and soon, when all of my prayers
turn to ash and
no sound of me is heard,
in the evening of this tide
is deliverance
and i have slept.