When I was young,
God lived in buildings.
We heard He was everywhere
but we knew his home address
was down the street, just past
Now I think God is a building.
No walls, no floor, just a ceiling
as high as one can imagine.
Every door you can find, marked or not,
is an illusion that one must work with
to find the path to lead into God.
Some tell me I’m not right
or I’m downright wrong
as they sneer about the whole notion
of The Ceiling Called God; no matter.
There’s infinite room
for all of them
under those rafters
when there are no walls to divide us,
when there’s no floor upon which
to trample each other as we rise
toward a great height
we will never touch.
God The Ceiling
is always out of reach,
doesn’t know what we’re up to,
doesn’t care. It hangs over us
without fussing and war and struggle,
with no gender, no creed, no race,
not even a face. Serene in its indifference
to those things, the Ceiling Called God
does its job and assumes we
must be doing the same.