Monday, August 02, 2004

1.2



We meander among the mistakes of the Lord,
Paths sawn-off by cliff-edge drops,
Marshes that snare the traveller to disease,
Wide tundra devoid of natural life in any possibility;

Areas awaiting His construction,
All the non sequiturs that unravel His universe if thought
     about too much;
Polite it would be not mention His embarrassment,
Though the fault seems a striving for perfection.

Give us, we petition you, Prometheus,
Pallid and introspective where the Lord is brash,
A world more guarded, pragmatic more,
A field to suit the human above the immortal.