Survival of the Richest in the Kingdom of Life

Here is a script for the unread.
A fable,
A table of sequences,
As periodic as the Seven Ages of Man,
It about an unreasoned end.

And the grave exchanges of life.
It is written In the leaves of love,
Yet it is lost on those for whom
It has been written.

It stirs before the morning
Or even the egg,
Or even the season,
Or the sperm.
It’s a little after midnight
On the Adam and Eve,
Of The eve of just now,
Or its just after the eve of the Big Bang.
When the aftermath
Was math.
When the Flash of Inspiration
Was in the cosmic wind.

There was no language to describe
No code.
Code and it’s accompanying notions
Were yet to evolve.

There was only purposeful chance.
All that was for certain was that
It was now well past absolute zero o'clock,
Therefore there was now a something,
And preceding, beyond this beginning ,
Might an X exist?
And now there was a hurtling.
There must have been a time.
So Time was established.

This being later equatable to truth,
It would not be believed
If it were not true,
Astral theorists take note
Proof can always be found.
But why postulate on events absurd?


© 2014 Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved