Creating.

He sits in his tower molding the world.
Listening and pondering, watching unfurl,
The essence of life and all of its ills,
A series of nightmares and rollercoaster thrills.

He listens to those that call out his name.
Building a city, a world they can tame.
Watching from above his work nigh done,
That fickle old man hiding in the sun.

Now time passed by him and all of his work,
Destroyed by some hideous, obvious clerk.
For there was someone else; higher than he.
A creature that held the great golden key.

The creature swooped in and burnt all the good,
The creature stealthily stole all he could.
The fickle old man, high up above.
Was brought to the ground by a heathen shove.

Some called him God, some called him Allah.
To some a spirit, to others a Buddha.
He was a man, all just the same,
He created a world reduced to shame.

And that creature, well he was a man.
Adam, his offspring. The human life-span.
They were his sons, or daughters I’m told.
But they brought him down stone-cold.

He died a creator, a bringer of life.
But his creation lives on in a great light.
They create worlds of virtual men.
Who someday may overthrow them.

Choking (Poem)

Swept away,
The wind is choking.
Every little thing,
The water's soaking.
This time,
I am hoping.
To find me,
And avoid choking.

Casket (Poem)

Lock your heart,
Chuck the key,
Never to be opened.
Lock the box,
Weld it shut,
Never let it open.