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The Creator
She formed a man, not from the dusty ground,
But from his words, crafted and self conscious,
Tilled from the dry earth of experience,
Both real and imagined, 'till slowly life
Breathed into images wrought from his soul.
She read his words flickering on her screen,
And gathering the words unto herself
Fashioned the man into her own image.
Delighting in her creative power,
Unaware of mortal fragility,
She danced for him, naked and unashamed,
As children dance in the fabled garden
Of spring's sun dappled innocence.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the shadows
Of the serpent crept ironically
Across her child's garden of fantasy,
And she beheld, at last, her nakedness,
And seeing the mortality of the man
For the first time, fashioned from enmity
An apron to cover her naked pride.
She made the man coats of skins and clothed him,
And drove him forever from her garden
Of dreams to till the hard, dry earth
Of his perpetual reality.
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