One hand clapping against storm cellar doors
Should never cause you to deny your own powers.
Mushroom clouds fall like tears from the sky,
Dusting minds with fragments that never quite die.
Neon fossils perch in a parched, thirsty land,
Pointing to signs both here and at hand.
The hungry, starved youth yearns for something more,
As chaos reigns and order is no more.
But through opened minds, the wheels still turn,
Like curving windmills that never seem to burn.
Mental collisions create scratches and scars,
As rough as life itself, as beautiful as art.
Death and data flow as smooth as a stream,
While atheists and scientists ponder and dream.
Does a falling tree make a sound on its own?
And can we truly connect with the great unknown?
Hello, black void, with no answer in sight,
So we avoid the questions that plague us each night.
:: 03.02.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 