Paramecium

Creator God, what am I?

If I crane a furtive glance Your way

I am that black speck of dirty dust

clogging and choking the beauty You made

Why am I so inefficient at being

    the true me?

The life You formed in the dawns

    of antiquity

Why do I act and connive

    as if You're not alive?

When it's plain as the Martian terrain

You know me more closely still

than the microscopic view

of the wriggling wisp-like waif

You made with just one cell