Clown Vapor
Maybe it's cold in the ember's heart...
Maybe a snowflake has a soul
, but we're born to label everything,
stop "this" or go with "that".
A pack of pill-worshipping ogres,
must get to the front of the line.
Microwaving dreams before they arrive...
Dinner served hot on the outside
cold in the middle, just like life.
We think we've discovered every color.
Every emotion undressed, audience of one.
That we're better than a snail, a bowl of apples
or prosthetic star.
We really have less depth than a primate nest-
or spider web.
We're not really anchored to anybody or anything...
Not even gravity; we're a lot like confetti.
We're only good at watching our neighbors...
being alone within our alone (like clown vapor).
Maybe God isn't above or below,
or great Afterall.
Maybe he's a novice at creating happiness,
a work in progress.
Maybe God is a rusty pop tab
a subterranean windchime
maybe God isn't anything,
maybe God is adrift in our hopeless land.
Maybe it's cold in the ember's heart...
maybe a snowflake has a soul?
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