A Work of God

The thoughts of her tear my soul a p a r t A conceptual mortar bombards my thought plain Could it be true? Could I produce something real? Something tangible, other than an abstract idea floating on paper or in my mind? But, I didn’t even try! I did not try to play God! God made her, not me… She is too perfect my other work all so bland, It is too strange to be true… I didn’t know I possessed the talent to produce grace or beauty I must have plagiarized a better artist’s work. Yet, her copyright bears my trademark. I am no Architect of Man…. You must have came from angels. I am at most a prophet, I suppose. The work of God, its decided. When she grows, I will tell her Of her divine heritage…