The world is filled with ancient stuff;
it came alive before our time
enslaved it, chained to days and hours,
and thought its might could humbly serve
our desire.
We thought we knew the way:
might, right, and fire,
And so hastened the day
when our kingdoms expire.
The world is always new and bright;
it births each day despite our work
to cage and bottle energy
and dole it out to better serve
their masters.
We think we rule alone.
Despite each new disaster,
pretending the unknown
is just hell’s ever-after.
The world is what we make it, yet
its underlying stuff persists
far past our lives and then beyond.
It does not care much for our whims
or dreaming.
We think we know such much:
that being is in seeming,
and jewels we can touch
for only us are gleaming.
23 APR 2025