Stories

In the beginning
a voice cried in the nothingness,
and nothingness became,
then things went boom,
back to back those two,
creator and destroyer,
And breathing over the waters
the preserver wandered -
or so the stories go.

They meander,
our stories,
we weave them in in some form
or another,
creator, preserver, destroyer –
things begin,
things last for a time,
things go boom.
How red the blood,
dripping drop
by lone drop
to scatter in the wind
as they weave their dance,
a seed to bloom to wither,
and then to seed.

Taking a deep breath,
I ponder how we weave the tales -
I think of Siddhartha
sitting by the river,
and those who wandered
across the desert,
and blood on a cross,
and Schrodinger’s cat
and the eyes of a dying woman.

Staring at the wasteland before me
I bat away the flickering shapes -
specters, ghosts, goblins
crawling in the midday heat -
their stories get old.

The sun feels good on my shoulders.
Thirsty, I take a deep drink.