My Curator

A day full of exchanging syllables,

Parables told over the dinner table.

All are fallible, but you cannot be.

I find it hard to believe.

You believe in the tales of our forefathers

The tales of your father

And that only takes you farther

Away from the current.

The present doesn’t like your presence

Because you believe the present caresses the careless.

Am I too reckless for your inheritance?

The necklace that rests upon God’s ticking time bomb

The family heirloom placed so close to your chest.

You don’t play with the cards dealt, so you force a poker face

And I have to create a story from the deep lines under your eyes.

We do nothing more than exchange looks,

But you tell your people to love thy neighbour.

We do nothing more than co-exist

But you preach about unity at the altar.

My curator is now watching our timeless picture,

praying for a new daughter

With incessant innocence.

The sermon ends, and you step down from the pedestal.

The same pedestal I carved my initials into.

I decided to worship you no more.

Because the taller I got

And the smaller you get –

I see too many flaws.

I focus on the beauty in your tired eyes

The memory of listening to your heartbeat

whilst lying on your chest.

I now use that sound to drown out

The tangible ignorance.

To keep our timeless picture forever alive,

I close my eyes

and repeat,

My Curator, The Creator.

My Curator, The Creator.

My Curator, The Creator.

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My Curator

6 thoughts on “My Curator

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