Subatomic Sand

Our fear of death consumes

every living microbe in our being.

We suffocate ourselves to seek a meaning.

But the truth is random, harsh, and empty.

Our skin is dust, nothing less

than flesh to push against flesh,

hoping energy serves to be tangible,

while hope is a slippery fish.

Our limbs twist.

We wish that failure wasn't death,

and life a dirty trick.

We slept for days and days and days,

soaking wisdom through our dreams,

sowing magic through secret seams.

Each stitch an earthly knowledge

of the past and present future.