A sunset of subjectivity and illusion

Riding on a chariot
fueled on centrifuge,
I soar my way home,
as the horizon begins to
swallow the sun whole.

Flawless, free from
the scatches of clouds,
the empty sky
keeps me from falling out
of a jar called Earth.

But screams combust through the air.
The drowning star
at the edge of the world
won’t die
easily.
It’s sputtering breath forks across the land,
lighting trees on fire.

Being a bug stuck in a jar,
I grin at the gagging of a god.
Knowing God’s weakness is
subjectivity,
I somehow feel bigger.

But as I make my last turn,
the Sun surges out
from (near) extinction,
hoping to swathe me with flame.
A whip crackles above me
but a house becomes the victim.
Hellfire erupts from the ground,
and all I can see now
are demon claws
tearing meat off bone.
A skeleton is all that stands.

My chariot jolts, as panic
flushes through me.
Who hath felt the wrath of God?

But the jar shakes once more.
He is not done
(seeing me crash
into the walls of my prison).

Fires extinguish.
The house rematerializes before me,
and so does the illusion
that comes with its mirrors.

I turn around; head home
to a box I can close around myself.
It seems to me
my loneliness within a lonely world
is the only thing that I can control.

Seeing a bug stuck in a jar,
God smiles at its specimen.
Knowing its strength is
subjectivity,
He somehow feels smaller.