We march these empty fields

Within our crowded minds

Searching for the remnant

Of culture left behind;

But what we find is puzzling,

A nature quite veneered,

Reflected in the eyes of those

Native to the year

We are carbon. Hydrogen and oxygen

And a pocket full of nitrogen.

We are life and death.

Part of everything we love and hate

We remember, the carbon of the past

With every pump of gas;

A breath of life, and fumes of death.

Strangers in a common plot,

Our paths unto the same un-end,

We find each other, quite unknown,

Until we must defend

That which makes us all the same,

Cultured in our ways;

That cosmic bind that finds in us

Life beyond our days.


History is an encounter,

Written for today,

Revealing what we’re meant to see

And how we want to play.

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