The dust of the universe, the stellar heavens,
the stuff of which we are comprised; carbon,
inert until infused with that mystical spark
giving animation. The flower that blooms
the birds that sing, they are as we,
transitory, ephemeral. They live, they
expire, their passing unnoticed, for others
take their place in turn; nature transforming
their living beauty into carbon dust
that will construct their replacements.
Much like us, organisms of nature's
spontaneous construct. Except, unlike us,
these sensate but unendowed organisms
cannot foresee their end, as do we.
We do, yet we do not, fantacizing personal
rebirth, memory intact, but hidden in the
subconscious, on return. We cannot, will not,
imagine nature's reality: a singular birth,
awakening consciousness, absorption with living,
denial of cessation which presents as a great,
yawning, empty gap, an immense no thing:
no existence, ergo no memory, no mind, no soul.
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