It is only a cry from birth to death, a cry as brief as a moment’s breath, a song that rises in a single note only to sink before it can float. How many of these does he create, the one who makes but never mends, and why continue, it’s fair to ask, when he knows from the start how it all ends?
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Thanks to @The Rewind for sharing this—I’m grateful!
He wants to learn, to be surprised again. Omniscience gets dull, I think. Maybe there are things even He doesn’t know, and that’s why we’re here. Don’t mind my blasphemy. Great poem, Paul.