Every once in a while
for the lonely blue moon’s sake
the monk copying scripture
makes a small mistake
His feathered pen runs out of ink
his candle out of wax
or he’s been at his desk all day
he needs to stretch his back

A dotted t a crossed i an
ascender out of place
a character goes missing
a brushstroke is replaced
It passes by the censors
and all the other scribes
It is of course a small mistake
so no one realized

So it becomes part of rote
silent anomalous
Hidden deep down in the code
and completely useless
The code in which it nestles
is used to justify
the crazy daily goings-on
until the pigs can fly

Until the pale moon is blue
and hell is hard and cold
and all of the assumptions
are worth their weight in gold
The code continues copying
itself: that’s what it does
though 99% of it
is useless pocket fuzz

Now temples and cathedrals
and soaring empires of rule
bottoms set in fuzziness
merciless and cruel
As the dogma spreads
exponentially multiplies
the foundations start to crack
the pillars calcify

Of course it all comes crashing down
Coz that’s what big things do
Hell is hot the moon is cold
again the oceans blue
“Change the only constant”
or so the cliche goes
but no one understands it
nobody really knows

The mechanisms there in place
to keep things fresh and lean
must be divine or infinite
beyond our wildest dreams
But really it’s just random
coz makers make mistakes
little tiny brushstrokes
out of line and out of place

It’s not that it’s on purpose
nor is it an accident
just with so many brushstrokes
some shit is bound to happen
It doesn’t know it cannot see
it neither feels nor cares
invisible to optics and
indifferent to prayers

The monk can mutter all he likes
if it helps him relax
his mistakes are perfect

Wait … I gotta stretch my back!