Friday, January 14, 2011
Our finitude affinity
Leads us to give, too easily,
Our undivided loyalty
To things rife with infirmity.
For, relative and small are we,
With hearts that crave infinity
And souls persisting, context-free,
That seek a true authority.
And so, we seek and surrogate
Our own inventions; we can't wait
To transfer blame while mocking fate
By serving something we create.
Yet, one in zero are the odds
That we'd discover finite gods
Deserving of our serving lauds;
All such pretenders are just frauds.