A Peculiar Process Which Crops Up from Time to Time

There is comfort in these fantasies, I know,
And I don't say a word when people speak
Of unseen spirits, their God, Who, alone,
Is ageless, somehow conjuring what is
(Which can't be ageless) out of nothing,
When the simpler course would be to say
That that which is always has been, and their
Creator, unperceived, is not, and these souls,
Which they hope to have persist after
Their bodies die, and, better still, ascend
Into a heaven somewhere out of sight,
Are real. "Okay," I say. "Assure yourselves,
But understand that everything that I have seen
Suggests that what is neither comes nor goes,
And we are little eddies without meaning, without
Permanence, components of a middling planet
In a middling galaxy, and, in due time, we'll disappear,
As countless others like us have. They, too,
Had harbored fantasies."



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 145 times
Written on 2019-11-06 at 12:34

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