Strange symmetry, drawn from revolution,
Nameless might, ever carving us to be
Towering sculptures of evolution,
Some, shaped of arid sand; some, icy sea;
Some, mountains grand, some, leafy jungle shrines,
Yet others, temperate fields and rolling hills,
Or rocky shores that marry earth and brine;
What force dictates the charters we fulfill?
Dull minions, raised from dust, to dust return,
Yet what sage pestle grates upon our form,
In what dim mortar do our hearts still yearn;
What plan does Mother Earth have for her spawn?
Born but to live—yet born as well to die;
Perhaps it’s wisest never to bid why.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.