A cold air and purple stained glass memory:
I tiptoed to avoid disturbing the old God sleeping there,
With a smoke scented halo sprawled out around His head like cracked desert earth.
If He had opened His eyes in the morning light, He’d see no priestess or deity,
But a broken thing, hunched over, ashamed and naked.
In the night, I asked Him “Who wrestles with a God and lives?”
And I begged and worshiped from my knees, but this God didn’t have the power to spare me.
I know now that my curse is to long for a Being that can’t be held,
And no sacrifice I could bring would ever satisfy His needs
He slips like sand through my fingers, and every time I squeeze, I end up with less of Him.
This creator God, who feels no jealousy, gives me visions of past lives
Full of the laughter of his lovers,
Where I smelled His scent and worshiped before,
Where I was the oracle in His temple.
Hundreds of years where He has known my name and called out to me.
And now, He has nothing left to give me.
I have eaten from His tree of Knowledge of good and evil,
And I shall surely die.
- Ophira
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