A bowl of soup, a glass of wine
And thou beside me,
Ranting in the wilderness.
All the teachings of the Inspired Scriptures
Are dwarfed by the immensity
Of the star-crossed cosmos
Pascal’s wager need not apply.
Our vile bodies are consumed by fire
Urns of ashes towards sundown.
We therefore commit his body to the deep
In the certain hope that the sea will
Render him up on the Day of Judgment.
No sudden Epiphany brought me to this point,
Only the calm acceptance
That it beggars belief.
It beggars belief that we are all born
With the in-built virus of corruption,
Weighed down by some primordial guilt.
It beggars belief that our world,
Our wondrous awful world
Should blight our brief lives.
As flies to wanton boys
So are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.