Are we allopatric citizens,
species of this sphere,
separated by nothing more than
swamp gas and contour lines?

And can two lives,
so similarly drawn,
be so disparate --
one so desperate for change,
and one so isolate?

These insular boundaries
prevent the evolution of fate
and the natural tendency
to seek out and be found
out of the water and onto the land --
filled with a changing mind
and morphing limbs
to carry you away from yesterday.

Memories are vestigial now.
Thoughts are vestigial now.

And I'm grounded by these things that shouldn't be,
and fear there isn't enough left unspecified
on this specious joyride
for this special victim of selection
to spend his allocated time
in any other way but to survive...

10/12/2004

Posted on 10/12/2004
Copyright © 2023 Daniel Peterson