''It is not for us to play god in prose'
A deeply religious fellow once said to me,
his deep voice resonating his
earthly persuasions.

''We are little creatures,' he said
''Little minds ennobled by a divine touch.'
He seemed to grow taller with each word,
blue Lightning flashing in his eyes.

I nodded and wrote, my small, short fingers
moving with surprising dexterity,
creating little shapes and smudges,
while he stood, speaking, then listening
to the echo of his words hanging in the air.

''God is Real.' He whispered at me,
''Real. Real. Real.' Tears forming, flowing.
I said nothing, to insult him. I regret it now.
He turned and walked away,
leaving me wondering, thinking, sad.