There is no meaning or reason at all
Once being is reduced to the biological
As what propels this periodic aimlessness.
Beauty and love or even the gods above
Are niceties that serve others, but not me—
I cannot continue looking for what I cannot see.

That a heart—my heart—merely is
A mass of muscle, pumping
All on its own, sparked
By something now fully known—
Defined and detailed and understood—
Is neither bad nor good. It simply is.
As every rock is, once boiled down to it,
Or hawk overhead riding the gale:
Thinking these are of my heart, is where I fail.

07/11/2013

Posted on 07/12/2013
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