Time, the virtuoso

Time makes works of art with bone and flesh,
In a virtuosic tour de force of styles -
’Tis He, as well, who imbeciles beguiles
To copulate, and furnish Him with subjects that are fresh
To populate His latest compositions,
Not all that very different from his last -
He paints now as He’s painted in the past -
Ships of fools all clinging to their childish intuitions
That He really is concerned about their fate,
Or that of others trapped in His creations -
The gnashing of their teeth, their lamentations -
No! Only that they live on long enough to procreate
The subjects for his frescoes of tomorrow,
Who’ll live and die on fabric, drenched in sorrow,
Choking on the outrage that they hadn’t any say,
Nor any way to offer up resistance
To being yanked from blissful nonexistence,
And forced to strut and fret like puppets in a passion play, 
Which started with their wretched parents’ lust,
And ended with some shreds of canvas rotting into dust.