God As Artist
Even he, in midst of shining houses,
mindful of chaos conquered, hungers still,
shudders a little at his mocking voices,
dreams of hell.
Familiar nightmare blacks the vaulted mind
where ancient raging love and fear and need
burst after something shapely, strive to bound
a monstrous breed.
His work is art, is war, is never won;
ever his sleepless dreams of chaos goad:
disastrous and divine, his golden suns
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