Pareidolia
In the knot of a tree or the wisp of a cloud,
In the life of the morn, or the
quiescent eve,
Is the face of a saint, or the
Virgin in shroud,
Should the eye of the seer
devise to believe;
But the
skeptic is lost as the
Prodigal Son
When by chance he perceives a
façade in the sky
And is
captive the
bars of retaliation
Against
scripture and
chaos as truth, by-and-by!
And in much the same way as our
Luke had once told,
An
agnostic returns to the host of his school,
And the
skeptics forget that they knew the
kobold
Who affiliates with such a fine band of fools.
And eventually all of the
skeptics are gone
To
agnosticism or the faith in a Lord,
And forget, they might
quick, of the passionless throng
That they were in the
sardonic times of before.
Not the tree nor the cloud is directly of God,
Nor His
Son, nor
His Cross, nor a prophet or priest,
But that
nature is here might just be a faint nod
To the fact that the Love of this world is a feast.