My name cues the way home
I have become nobody, no one
For how insignificant are my words
In one country on one planet
Near a sun among a billon suns
In one galaxy of a hundred billion suns
In a universe among a hundred billion
Galaxies, we float in a quasi-narrative
13.8 billion years old, my words
Is a thin balcony upon existence
I will live maybe 80 years, maybe use
A few thousand words at best
There is no such calling as poet
I cannot speak for martyrs or prophets
Nor have I been summoned here
My body is starting to suffer like a vehicle
In my dream, planets have voices
Strangely in isolation from neighbours
Not unlike people with their alphabetizing brains
Is language then the dark matter?
That makes up information and is yet
Invisible, and what is the black hole
Of philosophy and the last curfews of reason
I see no evidence of objective truth
Only the narratives we fantasize about
To give our reality a semblance of order.
I like this. Dare I say there’s an existential leap contained within? Or perhaps just a pondering. Either way it got me thinking.
Yes I like the macrocosm and feeling small, it’s somehow reassuring. Existential yes, the annihilation of the ego is liberating. The universe is filled with life.
Not sure if this is what you were going for, but I felt sadness with this one. You have a unique talent for evoking emotions on such a personal level.
Hi Shelly! I was a bit sick when I wrote this, so maybe that accounts for the odd tone.
I hope your feeling better!
Thanks, yes finally I pretty much am.