Here I am.

I am naked.

I rely on the substance of stars

to feed my appetite for movement.

I rely on the blood of eons

to justify my lust

for cosmic value,

and yet,

and yet, there is something more.

It is not a god,

clothed in the mysteries

of shamanistic dances

or the sheer unknowns

of genetic wanderings,

but rather it is something more.

The mere fact that I can speak of it,

the shouting I can muster,

the passion I may feel

all conspire to tell me

that it is nothing more

than the trembling pulse

of my unique self.

But is that sufficient

to make sense of it all?

That I may save a crawling beetle

from sure death

on a path on which I walk,

or weep when I see a child

buried from want of care?

Can these things be analyzed

like molecules

in a Petri dish

for their prescribed intentions

of going here and there

to satisfy the blink

of some star’s flicker?

Am I the product of a long chain

of incidental caring

or rather the result of selfish genes

orchestrated by the chance

of place and time?

Or am I so unique

that my decisions, even so trivial

as to want tea instead of wine,

the factors that may change the world

by the happenstance of

incidental notions?

No wonder that the tribe of humans

seek some being sitting in the heavens,

benificient and guiding us

to find the perfect plan for life,

when life is the terrible conflict

between what is sensuous

and what is thought about.

The heavens role and tumble,

clouds form and rain falls,

volcanoes erupt and lives are burnt away,

waves cover the earth in devastation,

and wars are waged

and the graves are filled with

young bodies

whose dreams are snuffed out

in a moment ,

and we are left to make sense

of it all.

There is no sense to make.]

The robin picks the worm

The worm dies.

Our life is but a trickle

in the vast river of all that is.

Does this fact give me succor?

Of course not.

But then I must confess

to being a human animal

who writes his mind

with a trembling hand

and knows that what he says

is little more

than the shaking leaf

of the birch tree in the wind.

If I can find peace in this,

I will die content