the handiwork

So intrepidly she sought the handiwork of god. Seekers seem to wander forever, being found in some continuum of motion--like birds more familiar in tides and bellows of wind then a perch or nest.
Speak of change, speak of change, and think of death, of ends, of semblent shadow misleadings--this earth that crumbles...but what of the means? Such unspeakable forces that spur a world in an eternal tremble, yet to our eyes it seems so sure and certain--to touch and feel--to breath in what is around us... that is undeniable.
And so she fought in dire nobility to see the handiwork of god--conceding, to self, the shadow cast by the sun.
And as she sat, gazing at the sky's calligraphy--she thought first that surely to ignore death and think merely of this beauty... some shamble, some lie--but is anything more than what is before us necessary?
To become some creature less ravenous than these foreign people around her, on some quest on the trembling still earth--in search for some magic music sequence--but this is the game of all tragic projectors--intertwined inward, drawn to existential surrender... labeling all things so futile and staring at the sky.. the only screen so wide and open enough to dream in such fantasies as god--for in distance clarity appears as mirage, dancing seductively, welcoming abstraction.
And so she tried with some deliverance to see the handiwork of some Being in her likeness, san s the destructive tinge--without the mortality--some father! Father, father, please forgive me--someone responsible--totally--for this magnificent masterpiece, for this crucifix...for this contradiction... for this... for this...

so intrepidly she sought the handiwork.