The world is as god thinks

The dreams did crowd at reason’s edge,
creation surely drew, the motley fabrics
of the mind, in giddy, lost review,
like banks of bright wildflowers,
through portals of belief, as grouchy
earth did succour, begetting sure relief.

Antediluvian mindset, the psyche was
reborn, and image sodden sepia,
in fluid flood was torn. Hope sat
with trust, the voyeurs, blew wishes
throughout time, and years in heady
cycle threw beaming joy sublime.

The tail of grief dragged tangled,
in shadow it was bowed, but love
remained exultant, the path untrodden
now. Intoxicating, melancholy was
the Soul’s parade; sought spirit in
the stillness, mourned sparsity and prayed.

The plough of time dug steady rows,
soil sown in wrinkles deep, touched
blackest coal and neon stars, while
minutes… hours slow eats; as oxymoron,
madness reigned and meteors did fly, across
the heavens vaulted; suddenly to die.

Oranges grew bright and plump, as
Nature held her ground, watered  good
as liquid rain, like incense, drifting clouds;
and in the prayers remaining, dusts gold and
gorgeous pinks, as fortune held the compass,
this world was made;  God thinks.

A poem using the words above.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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