The only argument for evil or sickness or rain or death
is for it to be a backdrop for love, health, sunshine, or life.
There must be one for the other to the exist,
But tell that to the hawk or the ant.
Tell it to the mountain or to the ocean.
And what does it mean?
Mountain knows only sky.
Ocean knows only depth,
but in the real, neither knows anything
and man pretends to know all for everything.
Hence a creation of God.
Deify the collective experience for the sake of dualistic clarity.
The birth of a God was to make black white.
To make up down.
To make death a concept and life a playground,
but tell any of that to the hawk.
And he only knows a sensation of wind across his feathers.
And maybe even that is unknown to the calmness of the hunting bird.
But where is the calmness in man?
He’s forever tortured by an argument of exist or don’t exist.
This against that,
contrast of stars in a void of forever.
He needs, craves, and desires sense where there is none.
His word, his God, confused.
The beauty of the whole thing.
His word crushed the entire meaning of one.
And oh, what a mistaken achievement.
He set himself against himself.
He put a rainbow in charge of his happiness.
He waited and waited and waited for bliss when bliss was there all along.
Oh Christ the son.
Christ, the tormentor of words.
The death of words.
