Life is a smudge and death is a swipe

Written by floating fingers on walls

Riddles only prophets comprehend

Provoking poor lay minds to wonder

To compose theories based on data

Which is inconclusive at the best

To create worlds where gods are noble

And beyond human understanding



But do Thoth and Azreal really

Play the parts of the moon to the sun?

Or are their morbid soul-counts tallies

Scratches on their desks, stats in their books?

Which will be assessed at the review

Do they crush meteors underfoot?

As they hasten on for “The Dipper”

Their favorite bar in Cospolis



Do they punch out early from their jobs?

To avoid the Milky Way traffic

Pushing eighty as they cruise across

The heavenly asphalt in their cars

Do they rinse off the day-to-day dust

With shots of magic? A drunk stupor

Laughing at the Moirae like they do

Exchanging that kind of silent joke



Do they go back to work on Monday

With mars noses and Saturn eye rings

To continue their same mundane jobs?

Subatomic documentation

Are these our gods and guides to our lives?

Why do they deserve their pedestals?

When is was because of us they are

We should not worship what we create