God’s the poet of the universe
sitting in some cosmic restaurant
half-drunk on stardust and broken dreams
scribbling on napkins made of galaxies
each word a burst of light
each line a river flowing through time
.
she doesn’t shout or preach
just taps her pen quiet steady
letting the ink of existence spill
across the blank page of the void
watching stars burn out and new ones ignite
as if it’s all part of some endless verse
no beginning no end
.
sometimes the lines don’t rhyme
sometimes the rhythm stumbles
but that’s the point isn’t it
she lets it be rough
lets it breathe
lets the imperfections sing
because perfection’s a bore
and this world
with all its cracks
is a better poem for it
.
she writes us into the story
lets us stumble across the page
fall into dark corners
trip over lines
we’re all part of the mess
part of the beauty
whether we like it or not
and maybe that’s why we keep going
because even in our clumsy steps
we’re part of the poem
whether we make sense of it or not
.
God doesn’t explain the verses
doesn’t hand out answers in neat little stanzas
she just watches us like a cat
perched on a windowsill
silent
knowing
letting the wind move through the trees
letting the birds write their own songs
letting the rain splatter across the pavement
like ink blotting out the words
.
and in those moments
when we’re quiet enough to listen
we can hear the heartbeat of the poem
a pulse that runs through everything
the stones
the stars
the dust on the kitchen table
it’s all part of the same great poem
the one she’s been writing since before time
the one she’ll keep writing long after we’re gone
.
but here’s the thing
God’s not a perfectionist
she’s not some grand architect
with blueprints and straight lines
she’s more like a jazz musician
improvising as she goes
leaning into the chaos
finding beauty in the broken chords
in the notes that don’t quite fit
.
and maybe that’s why
when you look at the world
when you look at yourself
you see the smudges the rough edges
the places where the ink ran
but it’s all part of the song
part of the poem
.
we don’t need to understand every word
we just need to keep reading
keep walking through the lines
knowing that somewhere somehow
there’s a rhythm to it all
a meaning beyond the words
a beat that moves through everything
.
God’s the poet of the world
and we’re all just scribbles on her page
but damn what a poem it is
what a wild messy beautiful thing
this life this world this dance of dust and stars
.
sing your praises
to the poet sitting in the corner
smiling at the mess we make
knowing that even in our chaos
we’re part of something bigger
something more
.
we are the lines she writes
the ink that spills
the song that never ends
© art & poetry by Richard Gordon Zyne