Dedicated to God

There are many gods that roam the earth,          
but only one that strolls the dome of the celeste.          
And not conceived          
for cause that this reality breeds of white light,          
aside the light as it is idea          
and revelation unformed          
nor bent by infant empirical.          
         
Dragging the folds of Eta Carinae,
the trade winds are grafted 'round these toenails.          
         
Consoling eons that shell casings would blind the squirming human frog          
as it marked its pond through the ocean in borders it would not see
and biting the gnats that squatted there,          
in the great empty of the heliacal soul,          
the one God heard a whisper          
though transcending the linear structure of uncrafted time          
in the vacuum of the whole without gravity,          
and the mutter "My God"          
justified the viral danger to the tears of these eyes          
that puffed just as lonely in the nonexistent Alpha.          
         
Riddling phonemes to beating growths of the infinitesimal heat of God-self          
and distilling a potion of tangible light through the dark ages of quantum era,          
a speech like "Let it be" grounded all the sky to earth systems,          
but distinguishing one earth          
aloft the fermata of a vision that mused requited love.          
         
In an echo reverberating through the possible of God's mind,          
for that singing,          
the Progenitor created a line of evil and good.          
         
The toad croaked and plucked its violin.          
         
And refugeed in solataire on a lily pad through the decay of Capricorn's hellish destitution,          
wondering, "Who, who is my creator that I would exist in such manner of nonlife?",          
         
the vines grow,          
feed the hungry          
in a dimension of the outcast meek  
that inherited some God-bathed earth          
that is yet not for you and I to behold.