My own Almighty

I am god. At least my own. I pray to myself, Aware, with faith That my own Deism will cleanse my sins. My calloused hands Roam and intertwine amongst one another. Creating and sculpting, Molding my own world, My choices and consequences To be determined by my Craft. Whether it be my turmoil Or my salvation, It’s mine to create. My now or my future Decisions give shelter To Sorrow, angst, joy and fulfillment. They dance among eachother, Running down my fingertips. Eager and waiting To be woven into My life’s tapestry. These are my hands, My own sacred utensils Capable and driven by Their own divine power. I decide what thread they weave. I cast out my prayers, Knowing I myself am capable Of answering them Whatever potential my hands may hold, I give faith to my God. For my hands can raise mountains, As easily as they can lay them In ruin. And with that I find peace.