The air itself: a moving current of particles,
Changing mixing, flowing,
Overspilling its banks as it travels, going-
Gone, each moment a new composition born.
The ground upon which we stand,
Hurtles on as though driven by the beat of drums,
Being struck by an ever-impatient hand.
Spinning on an invisible axis
Made of intangible stuff we try to
simplify with our crude lexis.
Even the most basic item - a myriad of parts,
An everchanging horizon of building blocks
It’s smoothness an illusion, as you take apart a paradox
Of uneven crests and falls our eyes
Fail to render without aid from tools,
Our own senses are full of lies.
Hands used to shape, build a world.
Dead or alive, in one piece or tatters,
it doesn’t matter; for they still create.
Whether creation, from our minds, unfurls
Or from the world of bacteria, we prostrate
Ourselves in service of endless life.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 9:09 AM UTC
The air itself: a moving current of particles,
Changing mixing, flowing,
Overspilling its banks as it travels, going-
Gone, each moment a new composition born.
The ground upon which we stand,
Hurtles on as though driven by the beat of drums,
Being struck by an ever-impatient hand.
Spinning on an invisible axis
Made of intangible stuff we try to
simplify with our crude lexis.
Even the most basic item - a myriad of parts,
An everchanging horizon of building blocks
It’s smoothness an illusion, as you take apart a paradox
Of uneven crests and falls our eyes
Fail to render without aid from tools,
Our own senses are full of lies.
Hands used to shape, build a world.
Dead or alive, in one piece or tatters,
it doesn’t matter; for they still create.
Whether creation, from our minds, unfurls
Or from the world of bacteria, we prostrate
Ourselves in service of endless life.