deity

it happened...
as I always knew it would.
my narrow, decaying roots
have ruptured the pot.
surely no match
after all this time
for clay, yet
parched and pale,
steady fingers crept
onward and out.
slower than rust.
though remiss in my duty
as plant
to do otherwise, I feel
freedom might be sweeter
if there were any way to go
but down.
and where, did you say
I'd find god?
tell me once more,
for I'm afraid I left him
in the frail, unsteady fragments
of the pot.