Another poem of cosmic pessimism

SCRIPTURE 2

Joy is a moment. Every moment ends.

Time flickers past and most of it we waste.

Nor can remember every peach's taste.

Death takes away the laughter of our friends.

Last more than bronze? Perhaps, but art will die

all tongues are stilled last speaker in their grave.

When houses burn, it is our child we save.

Perhaps some years, but deathless is a lie.

God too, but if there is, they do not care.

Sparrows are just as precious as your verse.

For conquerors oblivion is worse

than losing. No one knows that they were there.

These perect instants fragments of some whole

that never came together to console.

This is turning into yet another sequence

SCRIPTURE 3

Either know one vast maker. All that is,

Might be, formed in an instant of fierce will.

Light, words expanding ever or until

Limit. A thought that's Theirs or Hers or His

An Aleph greater than our mind could hold

to try would blast. So never think you can.

know laid down laws. With which our world began

Coded in flesh. And constellations cold

have not the shape we think. Perception made

dragon crabclaw, sketched on dark field of sky.

We make things, think them real, consoling lie.

Or look on empty space and be afraid

either a fiction or so vast a mind.

We cannot think. There are no words to find.