The Random: Poetry

If there were images
attached to words
in memory's fondest embrace,
would they linger like
the dying petals of an iris
who knows nothing of its face,
or would it be more like
a strike of lightning
on a barren plain years from its grace?

Are we only
of information,
categorized in a
neural stew,
a mechanization
of sensation
born of organic brew?

Are we snapshots taken
by a calculated optic lens,
enhanced and calibrated,
photo-shopped with distorted grins?

Could we be alien nations
of interaction,
seemingly random and without name
Walking electrons without
knowledge of the nucleus in this game
or intersecting circuits on
a microchip of life
blazed into our syntax with
a deft technological splice?

I don't know,
I just don't know
Sometimes it simply begs the point
of whether we are individual molecules
on a larger body's joints

I wish we had the context
of just where we are in this mess
Creation gave us no instructions,
just bunch of endless quests

And maybe I keep wondering
if we are more than what we seem
or if our egos are like seeds
that grow beyond our mental streams

Because I can't pretend
that it all depends
on the shoulders that I know
or that its senseless when
I see the pattern everywhere I go
or that it is less an Art
to be a part
of this secret, often silent show...

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