Strange symmetry, drawn from revolution,
Nameless might, ever carving us to be
Pinnacled sculptures of evolution,
Some, shaped of arid sand, some, icy sea;
Some, mountains grand, some, jungled leafy shrines,
Yet others, temperate fields and rolling hills,
Or rocky shores that marry earth and brine;
What force dictates the charters we fulfill?
We minions, raised from earth, to earth return,
Yet what sage pestle grates upon our form,
And for what mortar do our hearts still yearn;
What plan does Mother Earth have for her spawn?
Born but to live, and yet born but to die;
Perhaps it’s wisest never to ask why.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.