A red and white diamond patterned concrete floor

That is god’s ground

The foundation of a stranded weathering gas station

Flies hide behind the clerk’s beard

He who looks over

Stocks the shelves, brings the voyagers in

Goat’s milk

Fluorescent beams he placed above

Moving herds of spiders

He created this place before any building codes have been established

Only he could be in control

New born insects crawling through low stocked shelves do not question whether or not the clerk is the creator

It is before their very own creation

For this they accept

For he does not concern himself as to place a plaque crediting his accomplishments

For he does not see what is to be gained by this

Will it bring him more money? Will it allow him to feed the stranded goers goat’s milk?

Will it bring widespread recognition and fame?

No, for his foundation lie stranded in a mountain range of orange sand

 

One can’t quite see it from afar, as the morning sand keeps it concealed

It is a localized center of life in an expanse of the unknown

And for those who miraculously find themselves as the foot of the dust-covered windowed doors, have found what will resurrect them

For they have discovered human creation

With an internal unconscious realization

But through mind unaware

For the clerk does not seek credit

Those who step collapse on god’s ground

Brought back to fruition by expiring goat’s milk

They are brought up

The clerk does not charge the fallen for he does not seek material gain

For he only cares for the preservation of what he has established

He lends his hand and the whole world to those who have been looking for it their whole lives

They are unaware of this

For the clerk does not seek credit

However internally they know

Throughout the expanse they have came across something beyond them

Something older than any

For it is creation

The ground of God