Stepping forth, mine own execrable self,
I bear witness to a scrawl on the wall
Of time or possibly eternity
That seems to stammer that simplicity
Is an ideal state, that complexity
Is the reality of that state, that
The ideal is an abstraction of the
Real, a flat fiction in the round world of
Fact, but a most necessary fiction,
For fact without fiction bespeaks a world
Adrift, unorbited and sailing out
Half-masted into unending darkness.
This wailing rock of Rosetta only
Champolion could read further states that
The fact of God is an infinity
Of unknowableness, though the fiction
Of God is our daily bread, the only
Reality we will ever know though
Crusted in shadow, every morsel
A fractured reflection, an empty hand
Belly full of consolation… The words
Tail off, trail off… Something about unseen
Hands above, beyond, below and between.