So, good, it’s decided, he’s a part of
me—the projection i share in 4D,
and, as such, a real part of his love—
a component of what I embody.
I like this idea that he exists,
content, and conscious, within his bounds,
happy, do tell, to hunt what He resists,
an offering from God, the depth He sounds,
when, as angels, the bad, in us, is put
to the forefront—and we’re at one again.
I step onward with my musical foot,
to make myself a man above other men,
and deserving of the best gal around.
Onward, ahead, a clock beats in my chest,
My creations, across time, will be found—
the product of a man that did his best
to live up to Him, in spite of a past
that betrayed a spot of venom and hate—
treating others as I imagined, aghast,
they treated me—unable, dear, to wait
for the devil to prove himself. So I
paid, didn’t I, for my sin, when I turned
from the world to nobody else but my
family—the ones that remained concerned
when everybody else had written me off,
a loony, a deviant, all vitriol
and nonsense—born from what I’d scoff,
lost to myself—absorbed by no soul—
the multitude that loves to shame others
when, somehow, it would lift them up,
and protect the family that He defers,
when, praise God, He would spread His love,
and decide, for good, what heaven allows.
Everything beyond Him is wilderness,
rabbits, deer, and a multitude of cows,
all adding up to the love we address
when food, from God, appears on the table.
I can’t complain; in heaven its given
unto all—we are both willing and able
to care for each other, and be shriven.