The Impossible Answer [poem]

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sometimes i almost get it
i can feel it lurking on
the tipness of my tongue
my life and me-ness
(you-ness too)
is hanging on a thread
i wonder what *on earth*
we have become
for every single particle
is poised upon a pinhead
{in a microbe
on a mote of dust
in a speck of water
as galaxies are thrust
across a space which could
be miniscule or infinite}
separately and together
at the same time
(i’m sure you’ll get my drift)
i wonder at the artifice
of everything and sifting
through the dross and grime
of beinginthisworld i retch
and though i sing with joy
while reading Tolstoy just for kicks
a trendy pall of hopelessness has spread
throughout the human paradigm
[but meanwhile i have saved
the best wine for the end]

it matters not how many
or how few there are
how long we live
or if we’ve travelled far
the fact remains
we’re all expendable
just fleeting almost-facts
like feathers floating on a wind
either thinking everything we do’s a sin
or everything we do’s our right
afraid of what we cannot be
ashamed of what we are
we long to join the circus
but we’ve lost our will to fight
we cannot face reality
that all we’re doing is
treading time
in ignorance
or grace and poise
until a ghostly unknown hand
has cut the cord
turned off the light
and though the lovely pen
is infinitely mightier than
the ugly sword
it is the blade which wins
on 3-D turf
until the time has come
for light to show its worth

it’s for that blaze
i tentatively wait
and with my pen
i trembly contemplate


© Alan Morrison, 2015

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