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…
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