I’m composed of His holographic plate,
for now, existing in His temporal realm,
realizing the future I would slate,
taking my place near the top, at the helm,
and securing the woman of my dreams.
I’m living, now, on His magic mountain,
taking the cure that He outward deems—
a life of philosophy under the sun,
designed for those ahead of the game,
unable to find a suitable mate,
or, at the very least, subject to shame,
because of the space we would berate
if we didn’t know how lucky we are.
I go, necessarily, to untold ends—
So, I care for my sweetheart from afar,
and consider the message He sends.
He speaks through me: i am His vessel,
transformed by the crucible of my wits—
determined to escape His earthly hell
by collecting all my infinite chits,
and correcting the course he’d allow
if I was a lesser being. This life,
this holographic plate, projects, now,
the faith i protect with my artsy knife,
and the life I look forward to abounds.
I might prove that consciousness persists—
and I know, of course, how that sounds,
but if the hypersphere truly exists,
the sphere itself would begin and end,
just like we do, here. Everything that
begins and ends represents what we tend—
a higher dimensional shape, the format
that, when we follow Him, we relate.
So what, I ask, can i possibly do?
I think of the distance covered by His gait,
and the frequency that he’d accrue,
as His influence, itself, would expand.
For our sake, I believe with all my might,
tethered to my maker’s various hand,
subject to myself, choosing what’s right.