Truth machines we
humans are..
Ever rumaging through life's
yardsale of meanings seeking
some validation of our self worth
In the pouring rain we thumb
through threadbare platitudes cited
by those who have gone before us
and for a quarter there's a carrot on
a stick for evey lustful sensibility
Yet, the machine cannot stop as
natures stupendous anomaly of the
me seeking me perhaps has its roots
in some devils trick
We are a species of disembodied spirits
searching for a body with legs that we
may walk to the throne of our own
Godhood
If we are one of another we will not
have it..little gods without a sceptre
is second class diety
The truth of all trues must be handed
us with mathematical precision
We will not be denied the ultimate..
Yet as we scrounge around like worms
burning on a hot sidewalk the still small
voice of our creator whispers within the
confines of our hubris
Have I not shared my power with you,
and have I not given you all things?
'For who but the crown of my creation
could think such thought's as thee?'