A black-hole away, in the candy cotton sky—
Underneath, they scatter like ants.
Some are eating; most are fighting,
and the most disgusting men take their women on the consecrated earth.
They were made in His image—
just a shadow of perfection, they believe.
They feel their own brush with infinity,
as so much more than He knows it is.
And their pride!—He eats cotton candy,
or He would, if His wants matched theirs.
Their alien fingers flow in predetermined movement—
cleaning the newborn babes, moving rice with chopsticks…
making love to their partners and shuffling their taxes.
It’s almost sad, He contemplates. How much choice they think they have.
In a world where a free country is the ability to draw rude caricatures of their politians and not get killed,
freedom is rare.
But it wouldn’t be so terrible,
if they didn’t think they had a choice.