he is born from wishful thinking
created from nothing and he is enduring
only in the minds of those who believe
who imagine and perceive
the world as his own work of art
that he might erase and again, start

he is a continuation of himself
an evolution propelled by a collective sigh
an invention in and of itself
a cry for help, a prayer to the sky
to the great openness where mysteries lie
that they cannot unravel

he is born from a greed
from a powerful compulsion
to answer distress and deprivation
when there is for guidance a great need
he is father and he is son
he is omnipotent and he is undone
by faith

he is here with no sustainability
before one that does not give him reality
no talking, no noise, because
this one does not answer to his laws

no longing for his assistance
for certification of his existence
offers unyielding resistance
to the garden, to the man, and to the tree
and to all that he is supposed to be

created from nothing
he can be everything
but when he is not sought,
his existence that some said ought
to give shape and rhythm to their lives
does not prevail – he barely survives


My first try at poetry, prompted by TymCon on the Prompt Exchange forum.

Edited 08/11 in the light of Faithless Juliet's review.