Lazy was God in his craft of death, that complexities should be mortal.
As if the effort to keep them beguiling
withers him
and tires him.
Give me another fleshy shell
and I shall continue to prosper!
For only bodies grow old beyond use.
An aged soul is simply wiser.

If I should fall down some stairs and
break my neck
why should my essence have to
suffer at the hands of my
earthly clumsiness?
They seem too detached to be so
closely connected;
what does a simple vein know of my thoughts?

Please do not extinguish my
intangibility and
laughter so easily.
They’re so fragile!
So precious!
Mould another form out of clay,
wrap it in skin and leave me be!

So lazy was God in his craft of death
that I think he seldom stopped
to realise his own genius.
His own artful masterpieces
capable of music and art and empathy.
Or maybe he did
and saw nothing but mundane expanse with which to fill with his creations
and all their wonderment.
Maybe he was threatened.
Their potential showed no boundaries, except that of their delicate physicality.

All of us, occupying space once unoccupied.