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Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Seconds Borrowed

We, we grow
only to go back
and fill in the blanks
of things the books will never mention,

       of the quiet spots by the reeds
and the river banks,
the street streams
where we perform our ablutions,

the purification of failed hopes
and wants:
       and the thoughts
no one will ever hear;

tiny treasures collected,
vacuumed from dust
in a museum too near the centre
for us to ever share

our sense of fear: that our joys and sorrows,
our memories and ambitions
       are seconds borrowed
from a timeline not our own,

our personal identity
and free will are no more
       than agents of doubt

over the things we can't do without
       being nothing
but the behavior of biology,

of nerve cells and molecules,
an associated assembly of the neuron
and the carbon,

offshoots of the mysterious chemical
that life revolves on,
that we are its pollen on the clear wings
of a breeze, filling the world with song

where the marigold sun sings
and we merely dance with the energy
it brings; and the mind is a galaxy
of order and chaos, a supernova
of thinking things

that somehow
       has made us grow,
only to go back
and wail over the blanks
of what we'll never know.

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