Sonnet: The Monsters of Formless Selves
by
John Kendall Hawkins
.
O the monsters and their wanna bees and
actalikes are nestling up to Nessy
who's visiting from her lagoon. Messy
twats, arrogant, presumptuous and grand
in their own legendary minds. Hunting
for light to stave off the valley of darkness
between their ears. They reveal the starkness
of our plight, the sound of black holes runting.
Voltaire said we'd have to invent a God,
some illusion to keep us all in line,
some old trick of mirrors we call divine,
to unspoil our childishness with a rod.
Still, there's something to be said for freedom,
so maybe, after all, we don't need Him.
