There's a being out there we call existence and on his back we live.
Few know he is there. Even fewer care.
The world we know sprouts from the life he has gifted us.
He breaks his back hauling us through day and night.
His limbs have grown frail with hunger, for he has given all his nutrients to us, and we take without a thought for him.
When we rebel and do harm to one another we cause harm to him as well.
He is a parent– feeling all things so that his children may be free.
His hands and knees are bloodied and ragged from crawling, while we do nothing to lighten his load, only to weigh it down.
His eyes are bloodshot from watching us tear each other apart.
They weaken with grief as he sees his children suffer at their own hands.
His lips are raw from screaming our names, from whispering directions which we ignore.
His tears only exist in memory for he sent them all to us so we may have water to drink.
His skin is shriveled from ******* the moisture from his body and instilling it in ours.
His chest is eroded from holding us close as we tremble in fear and in sadness.
And still, he endures.
For you. For me. For this fragile world he nurtures. For the hope that we will one day open our own eyes and see him– not as a myth, but our maker.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
There's a being out there we call existence and on his back we live.
Few know he is there. Even fewer care.
The world we know sprouts from the life he has gifted us.
He breaks his back hauling us through day and night.
His limbs have grown frail with hunger, for he has given all his nutrients to us, and we take without a thought for him.
When we rebel and do harm to one another we cause harm to him as well.
He is a parent– feeling all things so that his children may be free.
His hands and knees are bloodied and ragged from crawling, while we do nothing to lighten his load, only to weigh it down.
His eyes are bloodshot from watching us tear each other apart.
They weaken with grief as he sees his children suffer at their own hands.
His lips are raw from screaming our names, from whispering directions which we ignore.
His tears only exist in memory for he sent them all to us so we may have water to drink.
His skin is shriveled from ******* the moisture from his body and instilling it in ours.
His chest is eroded from holding us close as we tremble in fear and in sadness.
And still, he endures.
For you. For me. For this fragile world he nurtures. For the hope that we will one day open our own eyes and see him– not as a myth, but our maker.
Please tell me if you have any suggestions or changes that would improve make this piece. Thanks!