Deadman’s Hands

I was made by a deadman—
and the deadman’s locked inside.

In construction, think of deadman
to anchor towers’ growth.

My deadman does this for me.

In exploration, think of deadman
to anchor ships from sailing.

My deadman does this to me.

My deadman planned me, named me,
destroyed what came before me.

I am Mike Stop Continues,
moored to the shore and reaching ever outwards,
bound to the earth and rising ever upwards.

I am fire,
cursed to warm and light,
to burn until I don’t.

To construct and to explore,
to remember and to foresee.

God is trapped inside me.