The Horizon is God

"The horizon is God," Whispers the figure ascending the knoll With notebook in hand, and a pen in his soul.

"The horizon is God," Say the men in the corn fields, wagging their heads, With mouths in their eyes leaving nothing unsaid.

But there's another world, Far out and away from the sky, Where a boy drowns in towers a hundred feet high. He's a part of the concrete, the glass and the stone; He's been taught to see God in bones of his own. I am he, can't you see? The boy among towers is woefully me, A new age Zaccheus 'twixt tall, concrete men Longing to see the horizon again.

The gods we create fit inside of our ourselves, Stack neatly in boxes, on sycamore shelves, Horizons don't fit though, in minds made of glass, Or concrete or metal, for these too shall pass; They reach on forever, past treetop and field, Past the bounds of our minds and the truths we've concealed. I'll climb to the top, then, and look on in awe, Till all men admit: "The horizon is God."