Riding the steed of astrophysics’ assailing efforts,
too little do we see and know.
When forgetting to touch the dampnesses of swamps,
urges of beings’ great thrusts and drags
tear at souls' edges.
Lives' cacophonous intricacies crash and flow
in ecstasies and sorrows,
binding all to ephemeral worlds of sunlight and shadow.
Searching selves race through
the Forest of Pencils and The Book of The Dead.
A blur whispers,
“Is Nietzsche right,
or is Teilhard de Chardin closer to the Truth?”
Are we only existential blinkings
of highlights and midnights
happening much too fast?
Dürer’s monsters and Dalí’s slipping time
Picasso’s cubistic insights cloud vistas.
The All still refuses any possibilities
of beings’ direct paths.
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