The chair in the Void

In the heart of the void, where silence shrugs,
A chair sits jagged, with no need for rugs.
Its angles absurd, its purpose unclear,
It hums with the echo: A god was once here.

This was the seat where creation began,
Where a god sat briefly to sketch out a plan.
Stars were a doodle, black holes an oops,
Galaxies flung like celestial soups.

But gods, it turns out, have terrible focus,
Distracted by thoughts of their own magnum opus.
So the first god rose, left the chair in dismay,
Muttered, “Bugger this,” and wandered away.

The chair remains in its cosmic abyss,
A monument to something vaguely amiss.
It glistens with rain, though there's no real weather,
And shadows hang round, not doing much—together.

Does it mean something? Or nothing at all?
Was the chair just there to prevent a fall?
The universe laughs, a vast cosmic jest,
And the chair just sits there, unimpressed.

So heed this warning, you curious fool,
Don’t sit on the chair—it’s no ergonomic jewel.
For the weight of the void and god’s careless spree
Might just leave you longing for tea.

And somewhere, far off, the god has a grin,
Sipping a drink as the chaos sets in.
“Honestly,” they muse, with a casual air,
“Who needs eternity? I’ve still got the chair.”