To God, ,With Love

Oh, mighty mystery of mythic form,

to you I dedicate this poem;

a servant’s demeanor my stance of choice,

for what greater purpose could there be

for a meager human such as me,

than to serve that from which

all things come to share their mold.

Without you,

there would be less than nothing,

An unimaginable void,

empty and free from suffering,

with no possibility of life

while also existing beyond death.

Yet this servant welcomes suffering

while looking forward to his dying breath,

for to laugh with

and to love another

requires both;

the present tense creates the past

and a memory is born.

Surely, that’s worth something?

Oh, mighty mystery of mythic form,

from which we draw comparison,

to you I dedicate this poem,

and in order to infer our place