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.
