Toys of end time

The great helm of life, is not
steered by any knowable hand. It
is a far greater wonder that spread
the night sky with uncountable universes.

Left in the distance of creation, there is
memory sinking as lead weight to the bottom
of a dark and mysterious pond, there
is only fleeting remembrance, recognition.

Can one place a calloused finger upon
the dot of time, the spiraling shimmer
of that which is unpronounceable, the
spark that breathes life into conception?

Or, are we mortals left to speculate
the consequences of living, the
controlled calamity of religion, understood
only, when we step through death’s doorway?

Our brief strides a walk upon the surface of
a hull formed by an infinite void, we mere specks,
we insignificant contributions, strings
pulled by a laughing Geppetto, toys of end time.

If all were to wink out in an instance,
what difference would it make, what forfeit
would be gained, where would the substance
of being…collect, what weight would it have?

All we see or suppose we know is but a feather
blown across a quantum tableau of existence,
the ash of forever, a grave to poets and dreamers,
Popes and prophets, the suffering of eternity.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

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