I drift through the loose talk ...
of liberation, realization,
seven planes, the imminent
golden age of the new humanity.
Eternally benevolent, (so the prayer goes)
God is. Eternity's a long time.
Surely His benevolence
gets stretched mighty thin.
Cresting the hill, I view the next
lonely stretch of highway.
Whoever makes it
to those distant mountains
won't be me. I don't know who
he will be but I wish him well.
It takes a blind, penetrating sorrow
to hope for more - in the long view -
from our Creator than His ultimate,
unconcerned benevolence; the One
Who created this intricate, unfathomable,
ever-unfolding, tear-and-blood-soaked game.
O child of God, a glint in the current's flow;
a spark from the blacksmith's hammer.