So, on the back of ancient drooling time,
whose wrinkled brow reflects an aeon’s span,
we ride like barnacles with some great whale,
our presence raising neither pain nor care,
and taste the salty froth of cresting waves,
as if some fine repast we have prepared
with skills acquired outside the meager cave
from whence we started and will soon return.
With such impressions we interpret life
as good or bad, as great or come to nil,
and would persuade the universe to score
the outcome in our favor, by and by.
So, in the maw of endless gaping space,
whose vast and silent emptiness we fear,
we speak aloud to hear ourselves alone,
pretending there is something else to find.
2 JUN 2015