Worldcraft

I set out to
create a
world in seven days.

From a rock in loose
orbit of
celestial self-
importance,
a rock caught in the
rains of
radiation,

with but one
moon to
tether
ocean and bedrock and
magma to its center.

By dinner the
first day,
a fetus of
my fortunes
escaped me.

Overnight raids
between the
elements
raged,

fire burning water whilst
lack of oxygen
extinguished
flame.

The next morning,
I set out to correct
atmosphere readings,
staunch the
bleeding of my
brainchild.

Adding nitrogen
and
Niles,
carving lakes down
the smiles of mountain
ranges, I caught
faint whiffs
of life,

whispers
answering the light
pouring from heavens.

Day Three seemed
destined to
backfire,
as unprepared
environments tired of
playing host,

letting organisms choke
out their
indecision.

So I tried to
broker a
truce,
adding indigenous forms in
smaller groups,

hoping modesty
would limit greed.

Yet from
the fourth day they bred,
evolution gone to their
head
until fragile
food chains all
fed upon their own.

I watched these cannibals grow,
natal nuisance to
adult ruin,
savage palates for
war and the ballads their
exploits begged.

Some
wrote books in
my honour, but it was
used to make
the world
feel
smaller, not grand.

It had a
hand building
cathedrals and thrones,
walling their cities
from the ghosts
of hoarded
power.

By the sixth
day on, every hour was
a revolution,

secular constitutions
at civil war with
the lunatics,
both sides ruthless in
reproach.

Now I’m minutes
to midnight on
the eve of the seventh, the
only menace in
this story
me.

For I once looked at the
vacuums and saw
inherent value,
but in lieu of
something beautiful

my skewered version
of sanctuary
colludes to
sustain
itself infinitely,

but likely never will.

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