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Everything stays the same
We shift things, shape things,
changing the timeless paths of mountain springs.
We imagine a billion dollars,
it's countable, not so a suitcase full of sand.
We trust in luck, dogma, incantation,
rather than the all encompassing E = mc2,
athough some might argue that
the thought itself was a leap of faith.
We plough fields, sow seeds,
arrogant masters of all we survey;
ragweed and thistle, chaff blown on the wind,
first served, but forced to bow before our hand;
and we paint cars, chasing the colours of the
rainbow as we search for enlightenment,
ever torn between onwards and upwards
and the unexplored secrets of an ancient wood.
It's like alpha and omega have
become trapped in a revolving door,
like Gandhi and JKF still live and the
first ever rock that spewed forth
from the fiery bowels of the earth
is in conversation with the world's
tallest building, comparing notes on the
differing perceptions of immortality.
"I was here at the beginning and I
will be here long after you have
crumbled into dust," the rock says,
"Ah, but I will be more famous,"
comes the reply "at least whilst
there are books to chronicle
the relentless assault of mankind."
And somewhere, everywhere, every minute
of every day, a billion souls swallow pills
designed to cure all ills; whilst Mother nature
simply repairs what she can, knowing that
truth is a rise of sea, a fall of earth
and that the brief spiral of an autumn leaf
gifts life everlasting to the first fragile buds of spring.
Sometimes of course, though perhaps not often
enough, we think about the way it works.
How beautiful the velvet night, as all the stars,
the smiling crescent moon, come out to play
and claim sweet victory o'er the setting sun.
Mostly though, we dream our spendthrift dreams,
held fast in time's hypnotic spell. Knowing,
without entirely understanding, that in the end,
everything stays the same and only dust and memories remain.
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