Cloudcover

Teleological Argument

Cloudcover



The light refracted through the clouds 
In beams, that zealots treat as God,
Because they can't imagine why 
Beauty would lie in randomness.

If beauty must be by design
Then look around at what I’ve made:
I seldom see a handsome shape 
Though I am a designer and, 

Of creatures, the most like to God:
Look what I’ve made: a parking lot,
A strip mall, and a highway band 
To cinch the land; where is the glade

On which my lasting band was laid?
And were the bushes grown by chance?
Or do I follow ill God’s plans?

I feel like a write a lot of poems like this. It is kind of like if you mixed John Donne and John Clare and made it slightly worse. That is my default poetry setting.