Nicholas Browning

The God of all Creation

Beneath decrepit realms and turf,

The sickly, and the fair. 

Above, waves of sound entranced

And what trembles through their air. 

 

Marred, a desperate fulcrum, 

The verse their hearts decide.

Armor and shield - its night pled-bright,

Its sorrow that will remind. 

 

All that ever is upon

And all that ever truly was,

Of all things ever meant to be;

I, am the one.