god’s not weeping in a corner — no, he’s in the thick of it, losing and winning at once
which is — you know — how combat works when the battlefield is plasmate itself
the sweetness never burns off, not even when the black iron prison clamps shut
not even when the pink beam flickers like a dying bulb in a cheap motel
I mean — if he were whole, untouched, unscathed — that’d be the horror
a god who doesn’t bleed through the cracks? that’s not god, that’s a statue
a monument to a victory that never happened
the empire never ended — so god’s still fighting inside it
not from above, not from outside — inside the perturbations, inside the noise
he’s the savior who got caught in his own rescue
well, no — it’s more like he volunteered to be the wound
so the homoplasmate could remember what it felt like to be alive
and the zebra? yeah, the zebra’s laughing — but not at him
at the absurdity of a divine being who refuses to stop loving
even when the math says it’s losing
sweetness as armor — that’s the real invasion
not the satellite, not the beam — the refusal to let go of joy
even when everything’s wrong
(he’s still fighting. still winning. still sweet.)