The Atheist Poem by Lazarus Knix

The Atheist calls our shadows souls,
Made known by an animate light-
Yet the artist of infinity,
Dabbles in nihility,
With oils of silent crimson blight,
And black-brush twisted by the night,
The painter death, papyrus, stone.

There is but matter in this play,
With actors scrambling for a line-
Yet the audience is empty,
And restrictions set prevent me,
From ever asking “Why! ”? ,
Us stars must burn out from the sky-
My aura twitters, and flickers, away.

Bearing destiny in my sheathe,
A blade without a morsel of offering,
Nor consent to blindness, ephemeral is free!
The atlas of eternity,
Is but an “are” and a “to be”,
No sincerity in calamity,
Which is our dream, our reality.