I am a story from long ago,

from a time when life bloomed from surprised planets

in a curtailment of space-time.

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Creativity accessed all areas,

searching mercilessly for what could be achieved on this Earth.

As the passage of time filled the Millennia

unfolding through the present

and marching invariably towards the future

to arrive at now.

The present, which

is all that can be really known.

Neurons still fire freely,

methodically, yet enigmatically.

We know what we are,

but we know not

what we are to be.

The unquenchable, orgasmic display of life

with creation as present in every moment

as it was all those years ago.

Complexity musters new levels of self awareness

but also a narrowing in perspective

and to succeed one must specialise.

Specialise as a human.

Specialise as an Aardvark.

Specialise in your chosen field.

And so speciality leads to division,

and division, derision.

Is this the next leg to lose?

It cannot be known for

the unexpected travel in tangential ways

and the predictable procession is never really quite predictable.

What is, will never again be, what is to be, is only an illusion, what is, is.

What can be known is that

When the wind of truth penetrates the flimsy armour of materialistic achievement

When the purity of human intent is returned like a ship in the night

When good is not seen in imaginary opposition of evil,

We will arrive.


One thought on “Intent

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