it always falls tangled-side up

God is not a detail artist.
He designs with broad brush strokes
and expects us to fill the rest.
We cross-hatch furiously;
Our hearts shade and contour
their deepest desires and dreams,
first loves and last ones too.
Our hands sketch wild plans and
commit inevitable transgressions,
which our believing minds
inevitably correct.
Erasers are guided and
pencils encouraged to draw
over and over for penance.
And there we are,
spilling the ink again.
But just what does he expect
when his outlines
are such a patchwork mess?
All crisscrossed lines and
crooked spaces
and clashing colours?
Did he go to school
with Picasso or something?

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