The Race Track, by Garth Ferrante

The Race Track, by Albert Ryder (USA). 1900.

The Race Track

i greet you like this, cannot help but greet you like this, i am remiss, have not prayed in a long time, i see another satellite being swallowed by another gas giant and say to myself this is just proof on top of proof on top of proof that there is no god: since six million died in the holocaust, there can be no god, since i was allowed to be devoured by fear and loneliness and depression, there can be no god, since you were murdered slowly by your illness into dust and ash there can be no god...there is only the occasional meeting of fellow travelers, as we two were, and then the inevitable parting of the ways...i have so much to say to him wherever he rides as you know there are too many questions to ask, too many explanations to demand, to list here, but at least i can say without a trace of irony that i'm done with my war on christ: he was never the problem, really...i have only returned to the place i left long ago, the same one where i'm watching me tell you we shouldn't be friends anymore, the same one where i'm kissing goodbye years of friendship i'll never get back because soon enough you're going to die and fall victim to your own body, your own genes...there i am watching myself make all these mistakes and there's nothing i can do, no god steps in, no good ever comes of this, though sometimes i am transported to the deaf outer reaches of space where hang and slowly revolve the lonely planets...i go there to get the fuck away from myself, but death calls me back, says i'm not getting any time-outs, so if i want to live, i better start soon...there is no god, no one to be angry with, no one to murder in kind for murdering you, and after all this, what is there?: should i go to work tomorrow, be concerned about my pension, my savings?...should i be worried about my health benefits when i don't even know how much longer i'm going to have my health?...i want to be you sometimes, i want to be dead and gone, to not have these worries on my mind, being stressed from existence for saying he should be killed, that he should be made to die, that he should explain why wake us to such beauty if we're only going to be cut down by the rider just when we feel we've stayed to live...i'm still scared, matt, and you're not around to talk to anymore...i have only the grim silence of those planets which will never be enough for me...
​
Garth Ferrante

This poem was written as part of the surprise  ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge.

Garth Ferrante is a complete unknown who teaches, writes, and makes games out of challenging his own creativity.  He writes because he loves to, because he finds meaning and purpose in it, because if he didn’t, life would be lifeless.