"Perfect", He'd said.
He'd toiled in the clay for heavy hours,
moulding everything from nothing
with His bulbous, beautiful hands.
"He'll mate and propagate, one day", He'd said.
He grinned over His creation;
He breathed it life,
and He might have smiled as He said
"This is good",
or He might have laughed
as a maniac in a starless night,
as He simultaneously gave the form before him,
life and death.