Psalm Z
So here we are at the end of time
still thinking; still breathing;
pondering in our least possible way
what an end is and what time
could be if it reached an end.
We remain clueless as to what
the pedestals of creation were sunk into,
pondering, of course, what words
were of human origin and what were divine.
We have peeked the Serpent’s henchmen
in a last-ditch attempt to repeat their romp
with the daughters of mankind.
We have pondered papers hung on a fridge
prayed over, worked over, reviewed repeatedly
as the poet stood in their presence, probing politics,
science, and the holy writings.
We have resisted any urge to jump out a window.
We have ventured a Keatsian journey to the edge
of the earth cracking up, feeling awe not from surprise
but from a deep place knowing all along it would happen,
stability lacking; foundations of money and science
overlooking the way things were supposed to be.
We have challenged the God of the Bible
to answer to the Bible.
We have built questions more than answers from shortcomings
in marriage and in ponderings and rhetoric and integrity
that can nevertheless look to the warm blue and cold speckled
skies to believe that the ancient depth we see holds futures
turning ancient in their turns which frightens the little sparkle
of life gasping against the odds of survival in its totality
if not piecewise dunning a glimmer in the heart for a hope in turn
requisitioning religions of the earth to announce afterlives
of every conception promising eternity.
We have probed poets in the honor of the Deity.
We have looked to the ones mindful of God.
We have touched the fringes of the ways of Yahweh the Ancient.
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