The Myth of Creation
I thought I could make it.
I really thought I could make it.
The dreams of a fool,
Spinning outward and downward,
Weaving intangible webs.
Binding Atlas to his knees,
Bringing Achilles to heel,
Twisting and turning around Orpheus’ neck.
I thought I could take the sky on my shoulders.
I thought I was as invincible as a man could ever be.
I thought I could cheat Death himself within the depths of Tartarus.
There are so many colors in my dreams,
So many I could paint my own universe,
Bright and brilliant and full of nothing but stars.
By this vision I am blinded,
Spinning outward and downward,
The weight of love and humanity and the sky.
The sky is a distant horizon I will reach only when I can no longer try.
The stars, heaven’s light,
bring clarity to my form of melted wax and clay and rot.
From my terrible visage I sculpt with no eyes
The first of what I could never be.
It is beautiful and ruined beyond perfection.
But I cannot see,
For God has no eyes and no body and no mind,
Only hands and love and hate and the weight of humanity and the sky,
Hands for creating and destroying and creating again.
He is the fool.
Weaving intangible webs.
He really thought He could make it.