The View from Olympus

Oh my poor child, at last, agony ends your mad rite.
You ached, worshipped too deep for too many anight.
You hoped, eyes blinded by tears that pity you,
and stormed by thoughts that I’d laid in siege.
So count your joys child, lest you like to grieve
because I, I choose what to put you through.
My poor child, don’t confuse your pains of blasphemy
for sanctity, you’re no saint! Please don’t ask to be.

My poor child, my confused saint, I lambaste
With love! Your worship’s perfect to the taste
for one so new — your folly quickly leads
to silly inklings your new will’s created.
The fountainhead tries, yet fails and recedes
to fix those lovely flaws perfection hated.

“No choices! You Face the world when Facing me!
Hear, you of all races! Speak your soul from its deepest places
because we cannot meet them Face to Face till we have Faces.”