Should I blame my own creation for the existence of Beelzebub?: A poem 

It wouldn’t cause my death if my poetry was consigned to oblivion, 

but would I feel my death if I would abandon it altogether 

I construct a creation that teaches me to live to die and die to live 

The life of a short-lived fragrance and flower each day to perennially relive 

I have seldom reckoned that life, in its complexity, is very simple 

I give the benefit of doubt to the immensity that we don’t know over what we know 

Would I fathom that creation took a long time, before it became alive 

Would it be that even on the seventh day there should have been an advent and not an event? 

I am surrounded by fossils that advance hypotheses and not evidence 

Were I to criticise all invention of knowledge, and call progress lame resilience? 

I must even lampoon your beliefs that are organised to call God, God 

How you all are ignorant of the fact that he incarnates time and again to be amongst! 

Were I fulsome to remember all the truths before I lofted myself aground? 

Or am I a figment of the source that fountained my lives and names? 

For now, I only take on the humble entitlements of a poet whose silent poetry 

lives amid a poor unrequited austerity that bares his pulse and endorses his game  

Would I stare back at my creation to say that my suffering is its blame? 

That I must bear the brunt of the treachery from a Beelzebub, who also from it became!