Sunday, July 25

The whiteness of the attenuating clouds against azure sky,
How I admire Ialdabaoth's stolen artistry, or sorcery.
Yahweh always was such a hack, prone to stealing credit
For ideas which he never could conceive or approximate.
Cloudshade lengthening on the grassgreen swath,
My earthly paradise, my celestial dream, both
Are my hopes and fears of what can be,
Pure potential, form, never actuality.
Devils run amok unchecked in this world of god,
So much so I wonder if the latter is gone.


The balmy breeze blows blissfully by me;
I so enjoy free-laxing on a day of no work.

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