Fabrice Coffrini, AFP, Getty Images
Protons collide, energize particles;
dimensions emerge unseen but
present, and dark matter's vortex
ravenously consumes all. We
think, we feel, we see, we hear,
therefore we are. What are we?
Organized, functioning stardust.
We think, we feel, see, hear,
touch, exist. Are we matter, or
figments of our own imagination?
Is the universe and what we are an
immense hoax of the senses, given
cause to believe, teased with the
concept of life infinitely random?
Are we the random, careless
thoughts rambling about within
an inchoate, densely dark interior
rapidly, relentlessly feeding on
itself toward an inevitable
implosion to reverse the improbable,
frenzied assemblage imagined
assuming our archaic source?
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