The Artist painted
the skies and molded
the stars and galaxies
to His liking.

He sculpted the
mountains out of
clay and dirt.

He wrote music
and taught the birds
to sing His chords.

He carved a place
for the ocean and
poured His love
in its depths.

He made man.
He knit veins to bones.
Skin to ligaments and muscle.
Built a cage to protect our heart
as He knew that it
is so easily broken.
He connected nerves to the brain
and in that brain,
He made so complex of a
system that science is still
baffled by the ***** that
holds the information
of our personality.
Our emotions.
Our passions.

Then.
He did something crazy.
Insane.

He gave man free will.
To love or to hate.
To turn to or against.

And man turned against.
Hid from his Creator.
The One who knows his
inmost being.

And beauty was distorted.

All that is beautiful
is only an
echo.

An echo of the home
that we once knew.
An echo of the original
Artist, the one who
taught us to create.

*All I can do now
is to try and capture
Your beauty
to show to others.

The princess spits on the king,
Lying and ******* as much as she sings.
Her daft sticky package sliding 'cross  
walls of cold expensive rocks;  
She's that goat's toungue on a saltstick,
she's the rain on Ayer's rock.

White and pretty, tall and lonely
Aryan treasure fills her pleasure form:
one light life, of cruel dominance only
slipping between crack and follies
of ***-bound human bodies.

For now we are slime faces,
hidden chef d'œuvres of the waiting.
Today sewer crud, tomorrow
flagships of tall institutions.
Right now, the cold bitter lonely nights
safe of any example, safe of any fright.
Tomorrow the fables maybe;
plastic posters selling out,
while rabies spead and hunger shouts
from yet smaller mouths.