By no objective measure does the serpent bear any ill will,
but our blood runs cold, our breathing chokes at the sight of the snake
coiled round the oak. Hands tremble, trying to shelter, deflect,
the memories of the bites our fathers bore.
An infinite being, an omnipotent force
cannot endure under such truths.
Our innate hunger for meaning does not lead to any God.
Need not lead to God.
Thrust into being: life incarnate yet,
haunted by visions of an incomplete self.
Our dreams lie forever unfulfilled
and the truths we know come undone.
No blank canvas on which to project this worth.
Life too infinite, too vacuous to ever take positive form.
I'm too scared to turn this into something real
afraid to try just to fail.
Offer acceptance to the ache for society's demise.
Mankind's end by our own hands.