Formed of the gathered dust,

not even the first born

of the universe.

An afterthought,


maybe as

a land forgot.

Needing something,


where before was not,

just empty worlds.


How then

is there something so

precious in the Almost-Not?

Alone in here

abandoned on this

distant, failing rock.

The truth of the matter is,

we don’t know

one damn thing

about where our consciousness

comes from,

or if it even matters.


So far from understanding


so it’s no wonder we haven’t solved

the mystery of our being.

If someone knows,

then they’re not letting on,

because everyone whose come

has been a liar.

I don’t blame them,

not for one second,

because we tend to crucify

our saviours.


Drawn out of this dark,

hurled out into the stars,

from a mere 10,000 years

into an immortal’s arms.

Altered the conscious state.

Create new life at will.

Nothing so damned bizarre,

nothing so quick to kill.


The universe must wonder,

maybe it’s no wonder we’re

so far away from home.

We can’t even clean our room,

much more inclined to carpet bomb.

From some miniscule

DNA strand,

we spun out

into outer space.

From the canopy

to the Solar Wind.

I’m not sure

where we

fit in.


Not a guide,

but I’m sure we’re following


I don’t think we’re

making this all up on our own.

Where do we go?

From dust,

to an atom bomb?

From who we are

to something we don’t know.


HG – 2018

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