The Atheist and the End of the World

i.

I suck at being holy.
Can't write poetry worth a damn,
I can't pump sunshine up my blanks
or my blind side. My mileage will
always vary.

Can't help but think the world is no more than a rock
in a hard place,
torpedoing out in space, hurtling to some final destination,
each and every being thinking the answer is
written in pure poetry, holy prophecy or
monetary concurrency.

Smiling at my own absurdity, I alternate between the
ticking, and the tocking and the rocking, sometimes write poetry with
a straight face, as if there were a God quacking at creation
and hiding the trumpet card we all strive to die for.

Nothing can be further from God's lawful but awful truth. The
pendulum swings and the sun shines anyway. Another
atheist savors the time dust, another lost soul writes
an unworthy poem.

ii.

Mine eyes have seen the glory but nothing lasts forever,
not even your Beloved.

This poem is a work in progress. This poem is self-destructive.