It has to be a strength
of impossible life -
to smile in the face
of infinite darkness.
An overwhelming dream
finds our minds, at the end
of a chain. Unbroken by death.
But should we suffer -
to flower, seed and pass?
To drag on our ideals,
is to steal all passion from
the future. To believe we
have a place that is sacred -
is a sour, still reflection,
on the water, that in time,
will always fall. All the better,
to see the smoke and believe.
It is rising from a fire,
that we will never contain -
though we all get to touch it
and burn with it a while.
Enough is enough -
that we scourn those
who step up and say
what it is.
To believe or not.
To believe in faith -
that has us flounder
on wild shores.
At the edge of infinity -
over a bottomless belly
of dreadful darkness,
forever falls away.
Under our feet -
is the freedom to fall now,
or fly for a little while,
in hope, in wonder,
in reality.
In our own presence,
over eons of evolution.
To read of its ways,
and learn of its messages.
To the future, through
our lucky, lucky eyes.
by Gareth Rosser
And?
The integrity, of all of reality,
is twisted around a Father figure,
when we whirl about it's grandeur
to look for final answers.
A bright spark, ignites a flame -
but shatters into fragments all the same -
the dragon of matter in it's making, breaking
bonds of old and burning forms anew.
The revel in the detail - the
trouble it can cause - to question
lessons lasting in the learned lines
that asking groped for, in eternal fear.
And?
We are shaking, when the aching
mark of question, falls over, all anyone
can ever say - but numbers crunch us up
and turn us over.
An inward dive, a carbon rod -
rolled from the height of blown-up time
to a reaching arm, an open hand, an eager mind
to grasp it, turn and throw it.
The dance of fine tunes - identity
driven rhythms - all are given, and taken
for granted - without that awkward asking,
without any unknown dance steps.
And?
That's it. This is all there is -
and there is no more left to say - when
it is okay, to sidestep away from the
useless truth. The begging of questions.
A.
by Gareth Rosser
No room.
In realising
there is no room
for faith,
there is no sharp
blanket of easy belief -
anywhere between Mary
and an eternity of stars.
Marked out by a comet
of contrast, to us.
In the eye explosions of Hubble
space telescope - pictures of an
ungraspable, utterly edgeless
and immensely scaling height
inflame our senses
while robbed of all perspective.
We look into the eyes
of our universe, like a baby
preprogrammed to recognise
the features of our parent's faces.
We must shake -
to our very core, and reject all
given lore - to allow a glimpse
at a more realistic truth
that probably has nothing to
do with us - to catastrophically
shatter all illusions, mindlessly smear
our delusions, out of all direction -
but up there
the wind of seeds, blows
in all directions, at once with none
and thunder passes, across echoes
of life given chances.
