So what if I did make it all?
So what if I'm making it still?
I'm slack-jawed in awe of the gall
of this world ignoring My will.
Everything that happens happens
within My field of awareness.
My merest thought flattens atoms,
or should, but they couldn't care less.
Truth is My thoughts, and My thoughts make
the whole of creation, but I
am not My thoughts and so can't take
praise for their lives, blame for what dies.
I am that I am, yet I am
not I within the tale of Me.
Only the null knows what I am.
Only surrender lets me be.
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