When ink and pen in hands of man
inscribe your form, bipedal P,
they draw an altar on which 
God has slaughtered all stability.

No eyes could ever soak
in all the places you anoint,
and yet to see you all at once
we only need the point.

Flirting with infinity, 
your geometric progeny,
that fit inside you, oh, so tight,
with triangles, that feel so right...

3.1415926535 8979323846 2643383279 5028841971 6939937 5105820974944 59

Your ever-constant homily
says flaw is discipline,
the patron saint of imperfection
frees us from our sin.

And if our transcendental lift
shall find a final floor, 
the Man will know
the death of God,
where wonder was before...