Some of the gods are confused,
deluded.
They sprawl in the snow,
cold and wet
Freezing.
About to burst with obesity
yet gorging themselves on the snowflakes that drop atop their tongues.
They argue over who makes the best snow angel.
Their wings are now nothing but a vague image—
A single cell’s temporary daydream,
not enough constant prayers—temporary interpretations of the ideal state—to creating a physical law,
drafted out by the Creator’s bare hands.
These gods, drunk with motion sickness, do not know that the moving of that hand is entirely up to them.
That they themselves are creators,
painting out their own Universe.