Sunday Thighs

God laid down to rest in his
Sunday best and scraped off the face
He used to warmly welcome a taste.
Dead as his idea and the idea of him, I sat beside him and created God in the same instance. I rejected his sullen features and glass eyes showing reprise, for I knew far better the idea of my creation. Man creates God as a representation of chaos, but the chaotic few chase existence in the present tense. Now bleeds into then, him and I dream into them, copies of copies breed inside our minds until we no longer breathe life into them. This, a memory. That, a thought. No line between to read upon our palms. With my palm, I hold more power than any God though I choose not to wield it. Too timid to worship our own palms, too naive to realize our God. An invisible God dies as we worship him, a visible nature dies as we nurture it.