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Rated: E · Poetry · Fantasy · #2197125
The Creator laments.
I’d like to build a universe
and sprinkle it with stars.
Yet I did so a long time ago,
but black holes ate it all.

I’d like to scatter nebulae
and galaxies galore.
Yet black holes reign (they are a pain,)
so what am I creating for?

Well here I go, a deep breath I take
and here is what I say;
let light abide, (comets can collide)
neutrino and gamma ray.

’Tis vicious circle my creating,
the same outcome I see;
through wisps of gas, galactic dust
it is no mystery.

Look here, I am the one on high;
you’d think I’d get it right.
Yet Mars is cold, Uranus tilts
and black holes swallow light.

So off my throne, hand me the phone
I’ll call in my create;
Yet I shan't keep my hopes above
what seems to be dark fate.

I’ll bring existence into being;
creation I adore. Still I knew
it was never going to be the same—
just like it was before.

28 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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