It is possible things began at the atomic level
Before achieving an organic exchange
Leading to the unique ability
To cast images and voices through the air
Like so much pollen, an apt metaphor, I suppose,
And it may indeed be likely the demarcation
Occurred during a hiccup, or a dream
Of falling, perhaps, or merely the fear
A mother felt about this change inside her,
And things, beginning to form, altered course.
What was straight is thus bent,
What whole is made unwelcome.
All things flow from a singular act,
Unseeable, unsayable, blameless and opaque.
This is how journeys begin, the long meander.
All else flows from that moment,
Where space is warped, time seeks a tangent,
And the outcome leads to the next act, and the next,
And there is no reason, no gods to rail against,
Despite the deep and growing desire to do so.
Broken things seek repair, our eyes
Seek perfection, form
Unencumbered by random factors,
An ideal based in absurdity. You, I, all
Contain a flaw, a barrier to our vision.
Where in this am I? Uncontained
By earlier promises, false assurances,
I punctuate this sentence I am serving
With growls of rage against a thing that does not exist:
Impotent against my own loss of innocence.
Seek not the superman. Caped flight
Is a dangerous illusion, you cannot arrive,
You are not invulnerable, you cannot see
Through the walls of variation, creative chaos,
The horse you rode in on. You merely are.
What then to do, through the veil of tears?
Through decades of pain and regret, through
The failures of logic, you will not become that astronaut,
You will not rise above, except perhaps shed the anger,
That holds the heart in an iron grip, and breaks the body down.
We are partial, fragmented, slivers of probability.
We can see the stars and dream their spectrum,
But cannot touch their brilliance – they recede
At the speed of light, of actuality,
They wink from the deep past at this cosmic joke.
Built from dust, from the three laws, from fragments
Of dreams set in motion before any one of us
Rose from the mud, dripping trial and error,
We fall before we rise, hold to belief without assurances,
Broken even while believing we are whole.
Lie now in the soft grasses, raise your hand against the blue,
Trace your life as a map you will follow,
A dream you will offer to who you may become.
Rise and walk, without regrets, into the distances
You cannot know, though they await your arrival.
What has been broken cannot be fixed,
Only worn until it must be put away,
It’s patina no hedge against the ravages of time.
We are only vagabonds, seeking the way
Back to the soft dust of the stars, always before our eyes.