They say God rested on the seventh day
I find that hard to accept
For we are supposedly created
In a semblance of his image
And upon my own volitions
I seem to revel too far in my creations
For written on me in invisible ink
Are the plethora of words
Depicting my faults
Maybe it isn’t the creation that’s feverish
Perhaps it’s the destruction in its awe
Worn away by the subtle kisses of time