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A New Poem!
Aug. 3rd, 2013 05:05 pmInspired by seeing a prose poem for the first time. Thoughts?
What are we?
Really I think we are as the sand. Washing away in the wind and the wave and the current and slowly, so slowly, turning into stone with our memories and dreams and hopes buried as fossils.
In the future, creatures dance on our bodies and mindstuff, filaments of light and plasma engaging in a tango. Reality streaks past them, but we are a rock. Not that it matters to us at all. A planet, if you will, albeit a rogue one that travels from star to star, flitting to and fro like butterflies travel between flowers.
Then again.
Perhaps we are the waves.
Do we not beat against reality?
Do we not struggle against a foe that will never yield?
Do we not struggle in vain?
The Sun will boil away the ocean and leave the land and the universe shall grow cold and dark far before the crunch.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps we’ll win.
Or perhaps we’re both.
Wave and sand, sand and wave, waves made of sand and sand made of waves, particle and wave the same, all the same, all together in a bizarre tapestry of reality woven from the loom of physics and made of the fabric of spacetime—no wait, ripples in the fabric, ripples that are mere echoes from when the dance of the eons, the True Dance, had two dancers hit and order begat chaos which begat order which begat chaos which will ultimately beget the order of the void.
What are we?
Really I think we are as the sand. Washing away in the wind and the wave and the current and slowly, so slowly, turning into stone with our memories and dreams and hopes buried as fossils.
In the future, creatures dance on our bodies and mindstuff, filaments of light and plasma engaging in a tango. Reality streaks past them, but we are a rock. Not that it matters to us at all. A planet, if you will, albeit a rogue one that travels from star to star, flitting to and fro like butterflies travel between flowers.
Then again.
Perhaps we are the waves.
Do we not beat against reality?
Do we not struggle against a foe that will never yield?
Do we not struggle in vain?
The Sun will boil away the ocean and leave the land and the universe shall grow cold and dark far before the crunch.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps we’ll win.
Or perhaps we’re both.
Wave and sand, sand and wave, waves made of sand and sand made of waves, particle and wave the same, all the same, all together in a bizarre tapestry of reality woven from the loom of physics and made of the fabric of spacetime—no wait, ripples in the fabric, ripples that are mere echoes from when the dance of the eons, the True Dance, had two dancers hit and order begat chaos which begat order which begat chaos which will ultimately beget the order of the void.
