The Question

This one is quite long, please bear with me There is a religion/atheism element to this poem, the actual stance is agnostic, I hope that comes through

Energy and limitless potential,

concentrated so small as to barely exist,

the foetus, the seed

Planted in the womb of time,

the mother of nature without structure,

weak and fragile,

nevertheless with undeniable strength,

unstoppable power,

A collision, a spark, a flame.

Searing heat expanding,

reaching distances unfathomable,

Dust clouds draw,

forming beings with no voice,

existence of numbers and science

with destruction and creation,

efforts of that which has no conscience, yet

Organic compounds, somehow turning

that which will be, showing endless time,

chance and happenstance coalesce, life is born

Evolved, the seed grows,

Sprouting, a shooting, web of tangled fortunes,

chances blessed in instance, nothing other,

Creatures, complex and vivid,

as if imagined, by creativity so perceptive,

blind to theories post invented,

 

chaos categorised, travelled to states unrealised,

realism defined by the impossible,

worthless in presence of initiative,

effective without need of direction

Randomly, the spores settle on fields green,

millennia passing intelligence,

start by seeming sentence,

logic concludes inception,

of organised civilisation,

developments simply stories,

individual and collective,

responded by reflections

of interested mundanity,

thriving on birth and growth and death and rebirth

What happened to start this?

nothing shows mind nor person,

designed with no signature,

this clockwork working without need to function

So lucky is the formation, even to be,

how did logic become logic?

When did law become law?

Did anything do and know?

Can we ever discover? Is there even the need?

This fantasy a self serving insult

to that which matters,

chatters, obscure thoughts and remedies

to a syndrome non existent,

futilely working towards knowledge

perhaps unnecessary, certainly un-reachable,

distances too far to travel, and why bother?

Why bother? When there is so much else to solve?

Why waste on feeble chances?

What reality is most real?

That which is or that which is known?

No-one knows, open ended,

a patchwork of loose ends not to tie,

leave this mess to lie? Maybe, maybe

This solution most simple,

an ending most convenient,

no struggle required of tired eyes

mired by endless siege,

lines drawn fickle, wise,

But still it niggles, still asks, still remains,

the question,

why?