It is spinning
Uncontrollably, or seeming so
Finite eyes cannot grasp a pattern
Finite minds cannot fathom the depths of hue and timber
If there is a pattern
We are too close to see it
Too close to the fire
There is too much comfort in glowing embers
Tended with patient mindless devotion
That the depths of cold empty space between us
Might seem less
Empty

Finite, yes—our human capacity
For perception
Bound by a spectrum
But an atom’s breadth wide
Yet this is the lie we tell ourselves
The lie we have come to believe
For we have no wish to step back
And search for patterns
We cannot acknowledge what cannot be seen
Right?
Or mere rationalizations
That do more to call us by name
Than the names we call ourselves…


Faithless…
That is what we are
Knowing deep within
The shape of patterns within the world
Like lace
To acknowledge the lace of our lives
Our meetings and partings
Seemingly random—yet not
Is to acknowledge patterns
We’d just as soon not recognize
That we own more control
Over unfathomed depths of locus—
We control more than we like
Like more than we wish
Wish less than we could

We stab out our eyes
To avoid seeing
Drive spikes through our ears
To avoid hearing
Cut out our tongues
To avoid confessing
Yet the world still spins
Truth still works the shuttle
Of Life’s warp and weft
Leaving us in the end
To understand our ability to work the loom
Is not hampered
By self-mutilation

And we are then left without excuse


ELAshley
051507.021212.1
Revised on:
052407.120559.1