The Maker
Long before the days of old,
Nothing was and all was one,
He stared into and saw himself–
The infinite hollows of space.
Shackled in the grotesque stomach,
He slouched as solitude whispered.
He knelt at the feet of Time,
And begged for dull to end.
Until he rose in power and plot–
The weight of ennui he fought;
So rays of light and water rushed–
In seven days his crisis hushed.
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