The Question
Looking out of a window
onto the world, you wonder
if there is an awareness
that soaks each living cell,
something that sews together
all life into a symphony
playing to the score written
by a single entity.
Or is everything a random
throw, discrete forms let loose
within a mindless programme
loaded with a bias
to survive, a world where
even charity and love
are attributes selected
to give the species
a social advantage, a trick
to win the game.
What then art, a sublime
song sung by the human
soul or something made
in the workshop
of a brain to keep
the human species entertained,
nothing more
than an evolutionary pill
to save us from going insane
whilst welded to our purpose.
Yet so much seems superfluous
to the mere act of breeding,
that we create books, galleries
and concert halls to store,
the evidence we could be more.
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