Poetry

109.

Hands of the gods,
dipped in fractious paints,
smearing and dabbing lands
in haste.
This realm is a project
that is ever under construction,
arts and crafts plied upon the stage
with little instruction.
A bird in flight, an author’s insight,
all dances that may soar right to the horizon.
Or plummet, to be dashed by velocity,
bloody atrocities dot the landscapes
like violent Pointillist musings.
It is soothing to connect the far-flung stars instead,
and make an image from nothing
to assuage cosmic dread.
These deific memories
sustain us to this day,
despite their realities being
light years gone and away.
A star I may be,
so I dip my hand in paints
to outline the sea.

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