Monday, September 15, 2014

Under the Blanket

Watching his creation, through the red blanket,
God cringes, at the fearfulness of His made things,
Which can never choose, to believe they are loved,

He can not even watch, without giving -
Unintentionally, that creepy feeling on the back of the neck,
That comes from being watched,

At the end of Time, He steels himself enough to knock,
Feeling after all, He's left it late,
The off-licenses are closed, and He's no gift
(Not God's gift certainly, to human kind.)

Their human-made quasi-afterlives,
Their netherspheres, and Cities of The Saved,
Their worlds of rivers and of Tiplerian maths,
Afford no entry to His tentative quest.

Where is the Doctor who can, cure this case,
Of self-despite, divinity depressed,
Self judged inadequate, unworth of praise,
Have faith Oh God, for still he may suspect,
The still small voice that asks he listen is....

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