Universal truths and certainty,
There is always a canon, a law.
Separate are the Holy,
That is their virtue.
But the cosmic circumstance,
The Universal plan?
The wilderness and the voices?
All in line with their books.
There is an arch and a Bishop
A world of believers,
And condemned unbelievers.
The science and the spirit,
The Galactic and the Quanta.
The village and the crowd,
The pocket in the shroud.
Kindness is King
Love and understanding.
Everything else is imperfect.
Written in response to the word "Imperfect" on #introtopoetry
©2019 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.
Here is a hand drawn lifetime
Which I hold up to the light,
Just as it appears in reality.
It looks too much like
A troubled, drawn, mess.
Which beggars belief.
A torn strip of a B existences,
Drudged in the gloopy syrup of time,
Slow and secluded, styled and misled.
Deceived and deluded
Dumb and derided.
It is a simple, singular blip in universal time.
As the three arrows pointed out,
Insignificant, as this life is,
Most don't even make it to an event horizon.
© 2018 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved