Formed of the gathered dust,
not even the first born
of the universe.
An afterthought,
added,
maybe as
a land forgot.
Needing something,
someone,
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
anything,
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
someone.
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
