With Certainty

What is life

but an unending march

toward certain death?

The driving will

to achieve a mark

on the tapestry

of time

draped over this

wobbling rock

floating in nothingness

means little,

if the blossom

of new life

is not sprung

from the body

of the achiever.

When death is fact,

and life is short,

what point is it

if there is no soul

for whom to leave

your wedge

of the fruit

of your labor?

with no guarantee

that the mind

holds ghostly form,

one must strive

to nurture goodness

in the next mind

to wander this rock

so that each

new pass

of this crust

past a sun

brings better


more perfect beings.

This I know

with certainty.

So then what meaning

has this simple form,

this sad shell

that wears my face,

who is incapable of

begetting a new life?


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