When gods remove their mask

the face behind is no more

than a creator. An artist

on days ego is allowed to sing

becomes a creation. Breaths

spun from their own lungs

build beliefs that hold freedom

as a foregone conclusion.

Who created whom?

The art and the artist.

Did the shepherd command a flock be born,

or did the flock demand a shepherd?

Amidst the words that language lost,

an answer stretches like a cat

in its final sunbeam.