The Atheism of Love

The Atheism of Love

Finally succumbed to the atheism of Love

The deity of the hopeful embodiment in skin

Of the infinite poignancy of meaning in humanity

Stitched out in the interconnected circumference

Of the biological and the spiritual

To rain down like a spot light of recognition

That a self could ever matter in the utmost to a reciprocating soul

Repels the rain drops from this tin roof

In a surrogate canopy of an infinite silence devouring all prayed for logic

To look out a window and see every other abode soaked

And battered with impact into interacting molecules

And this hovel completely dry

An overcoat of self to emote like a lightning rod

Conducting devotionals for a strike

And yet the electricity escapes to lower platforms

As if the bypass illuminates the invisibility of this establishment

Screaming parenthetically numbed to the futility of hope

And the abandonment to the religion or God bathed in this so called love

Viewing through that periscope like a scientist evaluating hypotheses

Of attachment of ants marching continually cognizant of his distance

And the ignorance of what may be watching him with a bi-folded view

Of ambivalence and helplessness to the juggernaut of free will wielded

With impunity by each thorax parading

Prayer like a molecule of water behind a closed faucet to alter any stimuli

Beyond the nexus of self, and in the concrete of this block,

Hope bursts into dissolution of smithereens, scoffed off by this dam

Anesthetized bewilderment steadied into a tenement of unpaid rent

Evicted to the conflicted cardboard box cities of tenable faiths annihilated

Gathered, reverberating and the circling vulture of depression rounds down

From overhead like a tub drain descending upon a measure of a man’s disbelief’s

Already on the bottom, only gallivanting naked into a hunter’s boreal forest

Traversing there and shot for lack of orange in this snowbound expanse

Mistaken for an elk estranged with the crimson swelling creek pooling

Finally shivering and returned the harvester harvests and speaks

That this meat was not predicted, was not elected, but none the less subjected

To the sight line of movements in the confluence of trajectories and is now

Encumbered the penalties of now, a finish line drawn, the red smears the white lawn

And that is all