He scatters the marbles on the platinum black spread,
Ripping colors of dawn from its empty threads.
The marbles tipsy and gyrate in elliptical orbits
And collide head straight spraying supernatural bits.
He takes an expert aim at the one in the center
And whispers a holy name, praising himself, the inventor.
A warbled scream erupts south; the marble heads off the ledge.
It's veering towards space's mouth, gone off any conscious edge.
Perfectly timed yet unexpected, the marbles erupt into a swarm.
Sweat dripping, calm and collected, He monitors the scene transform.
Havoc reeks down below; chorused voices praise Him,
Some in joy and some in woe; He succumbs to their every whim.
Steely resolve and tense, He stares at a tottering marble over there
And strikes it to repair what is in a constant state of despair.
Some marbles clump neatly; some are shoved farther to nowhere.
He tiptoes back discreetly and runs His hands through His hair.
For again havoc reeks down below and He continues to play this gamble
With no way to win and no way to unscramble.
Time and motion's rules are His only foe.
For again, discordant voices praise his name,
Some in joy and some finding one to blame.
As they forever sing, "To Him, the almighty, we owe everything."