He holds the world
Under the quiver of His fingers.

And Its bones and joints tired,
The mind wrinkled and dented,
Eyes weary of light
That It cannot bear His sheen glow
Still It continued, pushed through
Seen all that has been forsaken
What lies is in ink and white
The blankness overwhelms come to life
And even He is drawn to abhor It
Drawn to deny
For what His pillars had created,
Had brought nothing greater than a magnificent
Lie.

It was not beauty or grace.
But who are we to judge,
When we have not seen Its face?