Monday, November 25, 2013

Cells race


We are the victors
The climax
Of a single cell
Multiplied into
Our thousands
Cells still haunted
By the memory of
Our singularity
The frightening emptiness
Of the womb of our eternity

In our ears
As blood rushes
To meet our fears
The beating echo of
A primal rhythm of another life
Tricks us, we are not alone
And suckled on this belief
We huddle around
Empty hearths
Hoping friction will
Create a spark
We call love

Convinced of our importance
Convinced we are conceived of love
How could life not have meaning?
How could we doubt?
How could we not?
We are the simple victors of a race
A simple spurt from
Passions starting gun
The victory wreath
Split cells and loneliness

In our smugness
We are convinced of our place
Yet cells silently divide
Eating our confidence
As our skin slides and
Sloughs of our frames
Passions race is done, and
We, a dust filled jar
Return to the womb

Our eternity

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