A Sonnet

O Inhabitant, why tarry us with these masks?
Taunting our selves with these precarious tasks?
Thy magician masks constantly allure
Baiting us by norms that we can’t endure.

Thy ruse is deep and so thy creative immensity
We stagger at the scale of Thy infinity.
From thy self does by a fashion weave
Space, Time and all things within conceive.

Couldn’t Thou make all this a tad simple?
Grant worm and man a lease not this little!
But Thou art God of Infinite Splendour
Fashioner of forms and shapes of wonder.

Wean us from mortality, O Indweller true
By every breath and will to Thee to move.

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