Does creativity spring[?]
boundless
from the well of the abyss,
so we can sing.

When you crawl up out of that well and
up my ankles up my
jeans
up over knee hills
through thigh valleys.

Reach a finger tentatively
approaching
my hidden alley,
a dark moonlit crater you're
encroaching.

My Annabelle.
My Annabelle
Lee.
Hate me later,
love me now,
then
take your leave.

Perpetually pantheistic
endless cycles keeping man
in a vast panorama of
meaningless[?] accomplishments.

Is this it?

We are embryos patiently awaiting our birth.      

We are gods,
each
awaiting our flock of faithful followers.

We are embryos awaiting birth.