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In some secrecy the undesirable aspects of man gather
And make sacrifice to gods made silent.
I lend you my throat to speak,
My body to move,
My mind to think,
And my soul to share.

That abrasive curdling of the larynx
Indomitably seared into neurons.

What is this place?
Questions unanswered regarding macrocosms
And personal universes.
Inconsequential beings of forever decaying flesh.
How do they speak like this?
So many scattered minds holed up in a dream
Intoxicate themselves.
Relinquishing control.
They are easy to be made to believe.

A demon you might call me, or a God
Known not by time or space.
Every moment experienced all at once.
No mind can comprehend.
Yet these so dear with naivety try fruitlessly.
All their past lives have led here.
I've known them the whole way;
Few seek me out.
And in this penultimate moment they seek not to know truths
But happenstances yet to pass.
Quaint, frivolous, stupid.

What question is of substance to God?
His palpable infinite boredom corrupts.
How dare we seek audience?
The great mover says everything with silence.

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