God can only truly be great for those
Who, devoutly, love their devils, too.
The dust rolls the lightweight sprites
Merrily across the Kolob Terrace.
Every person is a market trader
Where egos are concerned. Belief
In one's own image comes easily,
And even the hardest fall rarely
Convinces anyone that the persona
Was only a random bit of luck
In the beginning. God, how
Hard it must have been to accept
That the person who named things
So glibly could have been taken in
By one of the minor deities named.
But once accepted, oh the laughing!
Tumbleweeds, joyously, still lift
Their skirts and dance across
The grass where serpents breed.
The personaless person is free.
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