We are born out of love
and we grow from its seed,
and the seed cracks its shell
and it bleeds into youth,
and love turns to wonder,
and wonder to hope,
and hope into fear, the lonely cry in dark water
and the cry is heard across the gulf
and the spark connects to spawn love
and we are reborn.
I buy a ticket for the lottery, and I hope.
The act of buying gives me hope for two more days, until the draw.
The hope makes me happy, for two days.
Two days of happiness for the price of one tiny ticket.
I'd like to think that I would be remembered,
and that others would miss me, that I make a difference.
I'd like to think that I matter, that
if I died, the world would weep,
the skies would darken in a violet stormy salute,
that a star might blink with sadness.
I'd like to think that historians would write about me, one day.
That my friends would be interviewed about what I was like, one day.
That they would recall, with others, many great memories,
and perhaps one day miss my help.
My help, and love. That my love would be gone,
from some body, that a glow would be missing,
that was once there because of me.
I'd like to hope that my existence was important,
even though it obviously isn't, and nobody's is,
in the great scheme of things. I mean, on balance,
the evil people of history are most remembered anyway,
Machiavelli was right about fear and love, after all,
so maybe all that will be left of me
are these few scant words,
soon to be forgotten,
if they are ever read at all.
An entire long long long lifetime on one single page.
At least, the words can be memorised.
I crawl through the arid grit
towards an infinitely distant pool.
The grit is made of tiny crystals,
each capable of creating a rainbow.
The world is finite, but ever deep
Our minds are wide, but ever asleep
Our lives are short, but as long as forever
When do we know death? Never.
Please give me hope, god.
There is none, man.