On The Funeral Of God.

Shadows, meekly sweeping the lull unpretentious streets,
The only lamppost lies crooked, slightly perturbed,
Flickering, in a rhythmic almost predictable swagger.

Dry leaves hustle, settling on numb frigid land,
Air bristling on the walls, resonating a forlorn tune,
Empty waves throbbing, the silence was deafening.

Amidst the tranquil winds, a shroud was born,
Tardily, grasping, branches entwining the aura,
Frayed ends of life, to finally succumb unto black.

Oh, God, the creator, Omnipotent,
Shall this be how it ends.
Muted cries, across Oceans and Ground,
Will You now transcend.

Is this eerie feeling, a mere coincidence,
beckoning me to fold my palms,
In prayer, not for me, but for You.

Dastard the vicinity, brave was the wilted flowers,
Crowning on Your now fallen undignified trunk.

The shroud, now covered, the stone scribbled,
With petit gems embedding your tomb,
And my fallen prayers, lay now,
Buried deep inside, with my fallen God.

I fold my palms for the final time,
In tryst with the tomb that never existed,
Throwing flowers, decorating with gems,
And shedding a false tear,
On this funeral of God.

Reviews

[Liza]

if humans lost all hope and believes God dies...
maybe we would save the piece of God left within us
keep God alive.

insightful write; made me think and treasure the divine.