Worship the God That You Are
Worship Yourself, child.
Stop huffing it into balloons you float up to wizened grandpas judging you from on high. You don’t need saving. Gods dance all around you, but they take some seeing.
Tread the earth humming cold under your heels, feel her pulse up endless gifts as auroras hurl javelins of fire through her pines.
Drink their striping rivers, child, yet see their drunken splash, too, through valleys proud with glass and steel, and in their bath of roaring sound, dance humbly with the bums and the broadsheets pirouetting between taxis and beneath crackling stars.
Feel breath gust life into your Temple and paint its walls with dreaming nebulae, dipping your brush in the vast gushing forces of your heart.
Feel codes slither inside you, yearning lemniscates aching for completion. And shepherd the billowing sparks fanning out from your lucent core. Give them their kindling and be brave. For who knows what fires will come.
Know only they burn everything you are not.
Watch Gaia give birth, as plants unfold from dirt — rising trebleclefs, their eager young arms claiming the light. Know that gravity waits hopefully for our own repudiation of his persistent spell.
And see yourself, child, curled in a drunk, sobbing ball on cold tiles, fallen past Earth and the remembrance of who you Are.
Now see yourself rising, lit by the whirring dynamo of your fierce unyielding heart.
Worship yourself, child, and join this weaving dance, for you can no longer be saved.
And nor would you want to be.
