Mote

A mere filament was all it meant to be
as it formed alive in the flowing lava
and shaped itself around liquid granite
that would cool for a few thousand years
disturbed by the violence of the earth
and inspected by the curious siftings of
archelogical explorers

A mere experience of self
tried in the docks of antiquity
made up like a carnival over the lockets
that define us into sequences and chains
the filament floats into the air
its chemistry now alien and strange
to a world of coloured lights and
people in cinemas

If the beginning was a word and
all life started from a falling apple seed
if all life came from the very simple
somehow hardy enough to continue
if all decisions are made on the sharp
end of illusion, how can we stop this
caldron from bubbling over the sides
how can we stop truth from shining
through our skins?


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