3 October 2021, 14:59
Crouching on the very edge I will say That the Bible could be entirely Made up And when I die, I might become Food for worms And nothing more. I do not believe this is true Or at least I have to hope with all my marrow That it is not For if I slipped off this edge It would be Into a dark and dreary chasm Of uncertainty. Hell, I am already uncertain Of most things Save for this—
Verum esse ipsum factum What is true is what Is made We are real not because we Observe reality But because we, image-bearers Invent reality In great waves of poetry.