The good here is merely an echo
Of the great we stress to borrow from
I’ve heard us burn bitter
At the thought of a cruel Creator
Who pleasures himself with the cruelty we inflict
On ourselves and each other
Forgetting that our conclusions are just as shortsighted as
Our understanding is narrow
If the why only makes sense at the end
Why do we choose to live in the pain of the inbetween?
Why allow ourselves to be caught in a cycle of
Rage and righteous indignation in rebellion of
An outcome pre-scripted for our ultimate and all consuming joy
The truth we so desperately minimize into inconvenient and unforgiving flaws
Is that there is better love and better life than the one we have carved out of our limited understanding of
How we define what it means to exist.
And even "better" is an adjective of limited capacity
Used to attempt to describe
The reality of a love
Designed to confound us with its potency