There Must Be You

There must be you, though I resent it, who stands up for yourself.

Shameless and Godlike, like a magician in tune with the darker arts, you snatch doves from void and before the audience can inspect you return them.

You quiltmaker, you second hand tailor. You weave together the clothes of dead men.

You self-molded prophet of the most high self. You feel no shame in contradiction. You feel no compulsion to weave parallel lines.

You who've never felt conflict, judge me for wrestling with truth, with the angels, with God.

And you say I'm toying with myself. That I'm the sum of a simple and predictable math equation that you read about in college.

Yet, though I resent it, there must be you. For without you, who would remind me of the folly of human endeavors? Without you, who would lead me to the volcanic ledge of absurdity to unearth my buried convictions? Without you, who could I stand against?

You are like a broken compass always pointing South. I'm never lost if I consult you and then turn and walk the other way.