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.
