Creation

The strangest things pop into your head at 1 A.M. A poem about Creation and Her sister.

The painted words were caked with mud.
Creation was a bit rusty.
She cleaned Her old brushes and watered Her colors.
The next stroke She graced the canvas with
was bright, vivid, and pure.

Orange, red, yellow, and blue.
The sunset was complete.
She captured its purest form, and satisfied,
She left her creation to blossom.

The orange faded first. A muddy brown.
The reds and the blues lost their luster,
slowly. Slowly. Yet the land She made
was no longer Hers.

The rest of Her pieces still sparkled.
This sunset, turned brown night,
was Her disappointment.
Abandoning Her child, the piece
was given to Her other.

Entropy was a crafty sister.
For She touched this and all others,
realizing their potential.
But Creation shaped, and nothing else.
While Entropy’s thoughts
transcended the present.

She was happy, for once.
Her own little toy!
Her unskilled hand left streaks,
scrapes, smudges, rips.
When She looked upon the canvas
She saw in what Her eyes was beauty.