God Is A Smoker

God Is A Smoker short poem

Photo by Dirigentens

Some believe God to be a broker,
Who fulfills desires on demand,
But I know him to be a smoker,
With a lit cigarette in his hand.

We are nothing but ash and fire,
A byproduct of his bad habit,
And none of our troubles seem dire,
From the Great Smoker’s café bar seat.

Our white cylinder catches his eye,
For a briefest moment now and then,
But he cannot hear a single cry,
From us fleeting, microscopic men.

So he judges us unwittingly,
As he observes the world from without,
Yet we scream at him pitifully,
Until we are forever put out.

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