He is of the cosmic bowl,
We are floating the dark orifice
They have yet to notice our toil
And discover our mortal distress
They have not lost themselves, like we have
He is of the light, that land with dreams in hand
Where makers are created, and their fires fanned
And in the insipid arena, where with space we sweep in hand
We are too far gone, it is too empty,
It is too dark to create our dreamland
And somewhere in the hearts passage
Is a tempered evil
At all things of fortunate passage
In all that is so peaceful
We are too tempestuous, we seek things sought
We seek things as they seem
We seek things, from the blackness
That are not easily seen
He is from a land below
Yet hell is above , and cold as snow
And our punishment is not seen
As we are blindfolded, so as not to know
About the Creator
Octovo Libra
Instagram: @libracymbaspoems
Twitter : @libracymbalspoems
And my poetry Hell Is Like A Dog Kennel and other poems
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