We float in dense time,
So much so, we are compressed.
There is little enough time for reasoning,
Or fore thought for a compelling endgame
And its execution.
We are simply book-ended by birth and burial,
Because in the wormery or embers of infinity,
The ultimate analysis of the Universe and its Enduring renewal,
Does not reveal the Reason for Death,
We came into existence, like everything else,
Though we comprehend little of Why Logic,
We have so far accumulated knowledge
To the sum of one layer of veneer.
And of our coexistence with all that is lush and alive?
This version of our species is characteristically ignorant or indifferent.
But still the pressure is, is on all of us,
Whilst some search for the ledger of life,
Others follow and others bleat,
The power brokers, persuade and cheat.
And still the have nots taste defeat.
Whilst some promulgate redemption,
Others persist with persecution.
Neither knowing the cause of love.
And meanwhile the wasters of knowledge
Are reaching for stars.
(c) 2019 Christopher Thompson
all rights reserved.