Creation is a blast.
Happens irremediably fast.
Flushed like methane out of mud,
combusting into fire out of blood,
a bastard anarchist, a tease
who gripes at her intricacies
but ultimately undergoes
that multitude of throes
exacted by a kickass craft: mastery
as dire as catastrophe –
sentencing her like a Pontius Pilate
to be hyperconscious of the riot
she is given to incite and to assuage,
only to be murdered in its rage.
Mission: to employ and to destroy.
Nothing left but joy.