Until we are dead, to believe or not believe is a matter of faith. My own examination through my life points toward great evidence for God and Christianity. Other equally intelligent people have reached other conclusions. Life is funny that way. Funnier still, to me, is the number of people unwilling to allow others to exercise the free will to self determination that God has granted us all. This poem is a small attempt at discussing the subject from certain aspects.
Alien Revelation by Michael Romani The atheist speaks of initiation Given through Copernican revelation That humanity sits meaningless on this dot And from this perspective, we are not a lot Gone is the made in God's image dream With it has left the specialness of being a human being The bite of this apple has brought its realization That we don't even experience intrinsic relation The universe exists as a string of variables Useful speak introduced in parables that resemble Something close to a useful equation While with warped speed we live in our fascination Even Oxford argues that we in our humanity Are a Goldilocks Zone sort of rarity As we scan the spectra finding nothing Phoning home with newfound songs to sing Failing to accept the study probability The atheist falsely proclaims answers with certainty Even where the search for alien life hasn't completely Been resolved, the atheist prefers a galaxy that is empty Than to consider what is seen as only ancient stories Believing instead in myths that don't surrender to glories That lend themselves to belief in a God breathed universe Decidedly believing this relationship would be worse True science relies on going where the evidence shows Not shying away from forbidden truth that flows Dogma to the contrary, a cup's worth has significance Here in our galaxy's garden there is no insignificance Our arrival in this post-secular world of drama Conceives of intelligence beyond a rendezvous with Rama Man's intelligence becoming our own god of awe As native intelligence becomes the end all, be all Without the other, there is little to forge identity Instead, we lock ourselves up in our singularity Who do we have to tell us who we are As we reach our hands to Heaven and the stars (c) August 11, 2018 Michael Romani All Rights Reserved