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08/13/08 - (1)
When Once upon a long-ago when, Before he was whom he had yet to become And the world was a mere photon in the Creator's eye,
Something resembling a glowing dust mote Hovered above an open space, a silent void, in the cosmos — A coalescing spheroid whirling inside its own fiery halo,
Which, after incalculable eons, Fell into place, like a spinning roulette wheel's ball Slowing, slowing, landing in its random pocket.
Though he can't conceivably remember that when, Some evenings, he senses, in dreams deeper than dreaming, That long-ago dust mote glowing in his soul,
Feels that he knows so much more than any man before him, That he's younger only than the sun-fed sphere itself, Though he's not grown older since his first birth.
Who he wasn't before he had yet to become himself Matters less than who he is now: The apotheosis of being, the antithesis of nothingness.
08/13/08 - (1)
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