Unaffected

Is He the provider, the master of the worlds
Or do we christen Him so
That our fortunes turn
That our fantasies precipitate

Is He the manifestation of hope
Or the Catalyst that breeds it
The Excuse for our excesses
An Illusion why we choose to suffer

Is evolution really Him peaking
Outdoing Himself at every step
And like all good Things
What peaks must descend

Is He an Idea whose time has come
Now that we merrily self destruct
An Idea that will surface
As a Miracle or perhaps a plague

Is He a creation of egotism
His Traits as varied as our imagination
Or a reflex of our defeats
A justification for satanic triumphs

Is He not in our subconscience
A woman we seat beside us
Adorn Her with pearls and emeralds;
Assume the right to Her violation

Or is He beyond comprehension
His Justice unaffected by love nor detest
That both saint and sinner are born
That both saint and sinner must die

:(

Just when you're about to start writing, the idea escapes from your head like a puff of dust!

Dilemna

There was a sense of mechanical purpose about him; the kind of energy a volkswagon running at a 100mph exudes, complete with flashing headlights trying to make up for an empty soul. He looked the 'subject' in the eyes. Not that he was new to this. He had done this many times before - his precision and nerves were the stuff of folklore.

But today was different. He was struck by a sudden feeling of awe at what he saw. A miracle of nature perhaps? This was the first time he was thinking of it this way. Today he didn't see a 'subject'. He saw a living figure, the curvacious body, the smooth fingers, the heaving of the torso as every breath grew stronger. And yes, the eyes.

What was it about those eyes? The fact that they weren't blinking or asking for mercy. Had they accepted their fate? Mocking him that if he went ahead with it, he would have a guilt ridden existence for the rest of his years? Or was it the last bravado of a flame about to go off, almost saying 'There's more where I came from brother'.

Or was it him? Was the blood on his hands getting harder and harder to wipe off? Was it a tussle between conscience and occupation? Or worse still, was a it a lone battle that conscience was waging to kep itself alive? To resurrect itself within a body that had forgotten its very existence?

And then, there was what my friend Jimmy Weed would refer to as a moment of clarity. To another person, his motives may be frivolous and without merit. But he knew what he was worth and believed that redemption would finally be his. And besides, if he didn't dissect that frog, he would fail the term.