Form

Do you love your children? They avert their gaze and go about life with only selfish thoughts. Petty bobbles and plans scratched in the dirt between strokes of a grand design. There is no time for you. How do you love your children when they mutilate themselves in defiance or ignorance? They strive to complete themselves with scavenged bits, your gifts dismissed. They destroy each other and pick over the remains with the same aim. Even then? If they prepare everything according to your letter but only a single hair is out out of place, do you condemn them? Does it please you to see your children scurry about anxious to keep the forms perfectly in order to hold the fire at bay? Are you offended by those who know and do not deign to try? Do they disgust you, these apathetic, imperfect, destructive, confused children of yours? Aren’t they disgusting? Aren’t I disgusting? Why do you stay? Do you tease us? Does it give you pleasure to trick us into holy practice when you know perfection is an impossibility? Is this a game? Or are you true? I am baffled. What is your shape? What is your purpose? You cling to us, the poor and malformed, and I do not understand your love.