The Galactic Chronograph

prose poem about God's mysterious ways

  God's design is the impeccable synchronicity of every moment.

 He is the master watchmaker who crafted every minuscule gear that operates behind the veil of our finite physical world.

 His hand is on every coincidence. 

His glorious light shines through the intricate machinations of our past and future choices.

  The devil's work is the grime upon said gears of the perfect watch. 

 Sin is the grinding of the timepiece, the twisting of the clock face, and the warping of the numerals' font.

 We are coerced to believe that the flawless system we inhabit bears miscalculations and rust by sheer chance.

 That is the magnificent lie.

 To be convinced our existence is merely the result of happenstance is to be misled by a myriad of cleverly laid distractions.

 However, no amount of tainted will can hide the truth that we were set in motion by the hand of the Primordial.

 The fingerprints of the Almighty One will forever remain as marks on the crown of our galactic chronograph.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Erudite]

Yet a muck riddled poem about flowers in july gets hundreds of reviews... smh