Cipher

The mother the daughter and the What is that empty space? 
We need to fill it. Fill it up with explanations that amaze our self-regard.
Here are compound eyes flecked with the dust of stars made by...
Matter is a pickle, or is this pickle omnipotent, like energy, 
like the predestined, the chosen by What is that fucking empty space?

Nothing sacred here but us, but you and me and our tribe. For sure. 
But the elements, all of the dragonflies, all of their ancestors too, 
300 million years ago, when the wingspans were two feet: 
As it was before, so it will be again. Or not. No rapture for us. 
Not exactly as planned. This 200K event and all its monuments
To glory. Shall we implode and sink? A microscopic sedimentary layer. 

Beyond the horizon, a hawk flies on recycled pinions. 
Raptor flight plan, no love, no hate, no war, just rapture. 
Where is the myopia of our species located? Maybe before I die, 
I will locate the exact spot, the part that remains in the dark. 
One thing I know for sure, a juvenile bet on divine intervention is 
The optimal losing hand. An ornamental bootstrap we created to comfort
ourselves. To explain our existence and supremacy in the natural world. 
At that stubborn, insistent junction with hegemony, it all goes bad. 

Coming apart, falling apart, the agony of understanding.
Without long-term vision, we are as blind as bats without sonar.
Might as well be sent back to the stone age right now. 
When the threads unravel, we will not have time to
do it all over again. Rumination is for ruminants. 
Going now. The dissolving edges of a butterfly's wings. 
She flies on according to her instinct, until the final grounding.

Sherrie Felton © 2020