Splashed into the ocean. With a sizzle.
Cradle the notion that someday this world
will ignite and explode
into something shiny and new.
If we dig deep enough we'll find the fuse.
If we chop fast enough we'll widdle it down to the wick.
Till it all burns away.
And like a phoenix a new Earth will emerge.
In our image. In our memory. In our earnest.
If you get there quick enough you'll get to heaven sooner.
You'll pass down your nasty habits
to the next generation of occupants.
Of purveyers. Of believers.
Of breathers and eaters.
More you and I.
More us and them.
More life and death.
In the moment you paused between the last sentence and this one,
someone died.
It can be an impossible thing to stomach the revolution of us.
The evolution of our existence.
Of the existence of all living and dead things.
But even dead things grow.
They grow into dust.
A dust that grows into dirt.
Grows into nutrients.
Food for the Earth.
For the living.
As we bury one,
atop the other.
The sickle that sweeps.
Cycle.
Bi-cycle.
If you take a stroll,
with feet off the ground.
And they're spinning.
One atop the other.
Never together. Spinning.
Chasing one another.
Yet never catching up.
And the wheels turn. And you move.
Atop another circle.
That's spinning.
In what direction?
The wind feels nice.
The sun hot against your cheeks.
Your eyes squinting.
Let there be light!
And burning bushes seemed like a good idea.
To light the way.
And Moses tossed his tablets.
And Newton got it right.
And they hit like stone.
Maybe they broke before he could,
broke his whips around his back.
Maybe they hung him for the fun of it,
from that old twisted elm shifting in an autumn breeze.
The side effects will wear off,
and microbes will make way.
As we are made of stars,
ancient dead stars.
No cold black dwarf.
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