Bonus Poem: We Are All Mutants

A hundred million years,
or more of evolution,
has made us all mutants.
From dull, single-celled organisms,
to complex universes of life and intelligence.

We came from the sea,
after a bubbling froth,
formed us in its foam,
and boiled over,
spilling us out,
into the Earth.

People,
hung up on monkeys,
so narrow-minded,
and refusing to realize,
how powerful is nature,
that it can outlast us so greatly,
and yet attune us so perfectly.

Science is no myth.
Evolution only a theory in name.
One is the process of confirming,
what the eyes see.
The other,
is the process of how they came to be.

So black, white,
red, brown,
or a color we’ve yet to meet,
We’re all the same,
in a way;
the universe forming itself,
through forge and fusion,
reaction and fission,
and chemical concoctions.

The end result?
No creature could imagine,
nor form in mind,
without prior observation.

All the things of life,
existence;
love, hate,
joy and pain,
everything in between
is the reaction of life,
greeting itself–
of the universe,
creating itself.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Soar

Withered and ashen gray,
curled beneath full moonlight,
the wind whispers incessant seductions,
while midnight rivers drain of blood,
and the scent of a fresh kill taints the air.

In the distance coyotes are calling.
Who or where is as equally our question as theirs.
Beneath them is the sound of even-further waves,
they crest with crescendo, their sea a symphony.

Between here and there is all reality,
but if no-one is there to witness it,
it fades.
Thus men of faith, religion,
pay homage to imagined creatures,
so that it might forever remain.

There is something to be said here of hope,
belief its benefactor, life its assassin.
So that it might meet reality, too, in the end.
But the abyss is wide,
deep,
ever growing.

Serpents’ forked tongues can sense death on the air,
like crimson blood tainting white wine.
There are no secrets to life.
No greater meaning.
There is only existence and those that exist.

Take heed this lesson.
Remember it.
For no meaning,
no purpose,
is true freedom.
We are bound by no shackles.
Soar.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: A Debt To Repay

Madness on your TV screen
looks of wrath so you scream.
Could have told you that I’d seen,
this nightmare’s no ordinary dream.

Time of man may have passed,
Our faith in ourselves lost at last,
I’ve no doubt we’ve been surpassed,
by those the furthest stars outcast.

Bombing runs and bloody nuns,
hunted beasts, corrupted priests,
I want three suns on my horizons,
or to flee from Earth’s at least.

This world was beauty, hued and bleak,
but now it is soiled, by those whom seek,
to deign an end that could never repeat,
our greatest achievements, in power’s seat.

Build a rocket, or at least a ship,
launch outward, but keep your whip,
on hand, at the ready,
to defend from the petty.

A sadness in that last assertion,
is that of one condition,
Man’s most notorious indiscretion,
to kill, or die by indecision.

So much of death I’ve spoken,
but missed the point, those I’ve awoken.
T’was ne’er to devalue life’s token,
but rather the opposite I meant you to soak in.

Life is a gift, love it’s wrapping,
death its unraveled, eponymous trapping.
You’ve only a single one that’s a-flashing
past your eyes then you’re crashing.

I’ve no more to say, ‘cept on this very day,
stop for a moment, and think of the way,
of the world and life that slowly decay,
and the debt you’ve left to repay:

You owe your existence to love and the world.