God's the Poet of the Universe

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