The Man Who Could Not Say God

I play music on shuffle and trust what shall play.
I travel without plans and have faith in the day.
My phone does not work, yet I never feel alone,
I am miles away and am always at home.
I stare at the clouds as they glow golden red.
I laugh at each moment when I know I’m not dead.

There is a strangeness within each of things,
Men older than I would call them angels with wings.
Yet the world has now changed, the angels have gone,
So I listen to winds and call it the Universe Song.
I call it karma, and vibes, and wave my hands vaguely,
I call it physics or mind or merely something that changed me.
There is one thing I don’t call it, but the reason is odd,
I never say, shall not say, cannot say God.

I see magic in the simplest buzzing of bees.
I call it a miracle just to hear someone sneeze.
I thank some unseeable piece of the sky,
For the chance to see life, and to be just as I.
A stranger sits next to me, holding a drink,
And asks — In regards to existence, what do I think?
My cheeks blush and I stutter as I try to explain,
It’s the Universe, karma, nothing insane.
But it’s too late, he’s lost interest, the arguments flawed,
All from the slip-up, of when I called it God.

I’ve spent so many nights, alone with my thoughts.
My head buried in books written by psychonauts.
Trying to use the rational part of my brain,
To describe the wonderful awe of the simplest rain.
I have stared into the flames of a fire that burns,
With the wonderful, miraculous, patternless patterns.
I have gazed into the eyes of a loved one and seen,
A light so blindingly bright, I go mad trying to glean,
The truth of that spark, that thing so damn awed —
That thing that I think, is probably God.