The Choser

The Chooser reaches His hand 

over and over me.

His bone a divine branch

twisting and twisting

the vines that grow through my veins.

He asks of me 

everything.

To control the wind in the trees,

and decompose those he kills with a glance. 

I grasp the world,

but he does not look at me.

The Chooser electrifies the ground I step upon

and holds my tongue with nonchalance.

He does not look at me.

I consume the poison flowers

because he asks me to.

The Chooser is a burning totem.

He sets fire to my soul when I catch his reaching arm.

If he would only look at me.

All of the earthquakes of the world would cluster beneath my feet,

the oceans would cease their waves and lie still,

every volcano would become dormant and freeze.

I will never please him. 

The Chooser reaches over me,

twisting together my sorry veins

and takes His pick.

She is a small white flower,

enveloped in a crown of foliage.

She does not beg to be seen,

but he chooses her.

I am a soldier,

a servant to the inner workings of His mind. 

It is only I that could predict his movement,

his commands,

if he would only look at me.

I long to be his sacrifice,

and I will die searching for his gaze. 

I wrote this piece in a writing camp this summer. It took me a while to even come up with the idea, but it sort of stems from my personal experiences with relationships. I really liked the

dynamic of comparing somebody you put on a pedestal to a god and being their loyal servant.