God has an Attic
Perhaps we are all specks of dust
Gaslit to think we have more
We reflect light fed from the window
While floating down the kitchen floor
And would a god know how
Us specks of dust can feel?
Sleeping on a daffodil leaf
Shooting arrows at her heel
Like anything we do can be seen
Can be felt
Perhaps we are all stuck
In some divine toy box in god's attic
Her daughter's all grown up
We are not dust but collecting it
In digital pictures and our favourite shoes
Ancient history was months ago
We've far expired the trending date
All we know is the enclosure and atmosphere
Of a musty, old attic full of memories abandoned
We are only an artifact that, yesterday,
Was buried below dirt and stones in her
Quaint little porch she calls home
Infested with worms below her feet
She can no longer know, and no longer cares













