Slipping down the slope of having
No beliefs, I've lost my way.
What should have been a straight
Path has twisted around of late
For no beacons guide the lay
Life; but, plenty of caffeine
Pushes us yet another day.

Why do we emulate the fae?
Flitting around in an elaborate
Yet confused dance, which hath
No true purpose or path;
Only hatred of our own indolent
God, who sits on his throne by day
And tells us to follow his

Path, which, we naturally miss
And flirt with surrounding bogs
Whose stench ignored reveals
Will-o-wisps of beauty that conceals
The ignorance of their dialogue
They reason why, in their hiss,
Of what they think, wrongly,

Is why we are here, ponderously
Groping in their pits of grime
For the purpose of their jolted dancing
Through the vestiges of delving
In the earth for translations of time
Devoid of meaning: they conjure one.
Using their fancies and shunning

The hated external forces cunning
Enough to have created all.
For it would violate their dance,
Whimsical and free, yet a farce
Of wanton unruliness, they call
Forth themselves as culling
From nature itself a baseless

Meaning of a life of hopeless
Fights and trials of merit
Or of ponderous culminations
Of knowing their own creations
As their flippant songs resonate
Of their fabled godlessness
As they gore and glut

On the misnomer of a Mother Nature
Crafty enough to have gilded 
Our lives of floundering aimlessly
Thinking on our creation shamelessly
Ignoring our forms which molded
So well, cannot be merely nature.
Without meaning, there is no God.