Chaos and daffodils and gigantic
bloodied pinwheels in a keening sky,
rusting iron towers struck red-hot by lightning and pirahna that have somehow learned to fly.

Madness and church-mice and clouds
turning to steam, the horizon wrenched
and ripped down a seam, stars falling to earth, snuffed out in the sea; God,
give our rain back to rain down on me.

Black hens or white hens, ice or fire:
to burn or to freeze on a funeral pyre,
ghosts turn to meat and flies turn to
leopards, trees turn to toothpicks and wolves turn to shepherds.

This perilous road where your soul goes
before ye, where the way be scattered
with caltrops and weeds, where demons
beset you till angels intercede, go now (go swiftly) go swing 'neath a tree.

Lo, chaos subsides, for a moment it is calm,
the Universe is illuminated by the Creators
magic-wand, then the flood-waters return
and the dry-land is afire and again mankinds lot is retched and dire:

(Volcanos freeze and the sea is on fire, our suffering, it seems, is God's dearest desire.)


© W.G. Myers