What is it, to be the master of your own creation?

Sinew snapping — Moth wings flapping

To have the cacophonous reckoning ever so,

Rapping, rapping, rapping

Between heavy eyelids sleeping,

Sputtering and weeping— 

O’, great God,

Is there really such God,

Of which I have seen with thine own eye?
What if I were thine own,

From slippery skin and sinew 

To crackling bone?

Of raven wings and bloody antlers,

Velvet shed and matted fleece shorn— 

Who am I, and from whence was I born?

What sagacious god gave way to thee,

Sputtering up the effervescent ooze

That had once laid waste to those come before me?

‘Twas it I, held betwixt the jaws of the creator?

Filled with stardust and rosebud— 

A creature damned to be the reflection of

That which lies as above, so below?

A mere mirror, a reflection of the palette of the sky

The divine taste of the Gods, a symbol of their heavenly cry?