The velocity of the speed of life
If or when they go from child to adult
And seed the next generation
By having children of their own
This new perspective gives them
A different, more fragile awareness
The enemy is not time, no
Only from a distance is it so
But up close
It is only our deceits
The untruthful conceits
Of living in a modern place
Revealing the extent of our danger
Of our fragility, our false constructs
Life's result is a joke
That we do not find funny
We are a moment, but earth is ancient
We make life a torment
Only with great effort is there changes
Looking at life as if
We are the masters of creation
When in fact we are the opposite
Our lives are artifice
Our legacy waste
We ought to see pleasure as a reward
When instead it is the sole goal we chase
Eventually everything we create
Becomes ash
Fire cleanses
Smoke rushes forth
Bellows out a black cloud
As if from the ovens of a death camp
Without prejudice
Without a face
We become our own destroyer
Building the machines of chaos
That take every life
“It was a high ceilinged room with tall, large-panes windows. Apart from the doorway was the desk where book had been checked out in days when books were still being checked out. He stood there for a moment looking around the silent room, shaking his head slowly. All these books, he thought, the residue of a planet's intellect, the scrapings of futile minds, the leftovers, the potpourri of artifacts that had no power to save men from perishing.”
