BURNING SAND

We play games with ourselves
the kind that even children do not play
We say we are mature and yet
we keep creating statues of clay

The beliefs we contrive
usually break the skin and bleed
We serve the gods of ill-repute
just like the centuries that we continually feed

The Universe is a woman who wonders
whether the men of her making can love
But she is angry at the prospect
that her creation will give her the shove

Such are the games we play
Fingering each others minds with hate
We jump and skip here and there on burning sand
only to fall into the holes we dug of late

zari alexxanderr-caine 2018

Photo credit: Pinterest , words are mine via SnapSeed