Homemade deities wandering the streets
looking for a couch on which to sleep
Homeless deities, some new and some old,
held together by the strength of our pride.
We creators don’t believe in them, currently,
but we creators still give them life
tethered to human minds by a golden thread,
the gods waiting to be yanked back, when
things collapse, to take up their space,
not rightful, but that which fits each god.
It is easier to install and serve a fake god
than to daily live with an infinite one.
But the homemade deities are small comfort,
for they roam and range, abandoning us.
They seek other homes, other spaces,
for they are not able to be in all spaces.
And these homeless deities, still unsevered,
are nothing compared to a deity
who wasn’t made
who was severed
and whose home is everywhere
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