If but 100 bear witness to the pilot’s jetstream

as it cleaves the sky, is his effect then greater than mine?

Entire being consumed by cause so grand;

but life’s exertion advances small.

As moral arc bends --

snapped my back in twain;

eyes no virgin to futures interrupted.

From painted earth, the nobility of martyrs feigned.

On my hands and knees, I weep and beg.

In atheistic search for resolve and providence, I write:

“Dearest, King and King of Kings - when I look upon, I do despair.

Here stands I, prince of nothing.

In your immortality fleeting; I cry you provide me answer

With but one life allotted; To what purpose serves my sorrow?”