Tim Cantor, 2014
We are born crippled, confined, burdened by time
and the vines of blood lines
We are the bearings of fog, of history and clocks, of the mysteries of life
In the hollow of rocks
Flowers and beasts, pebbles and specks and ashes below We are herds of carbon and calcium and atoms that grow
We are mammals and matter; thinking and feeding; surviving the snow
We, as humans, burn bright by our hopes
We burn fervent yet slow
We burn with a blistering need to know
So why just us?
There are infinite breeds and infinite lives all with red blood
All with red hearts and lungs and eyes and a brain
All with instincts and fears and so much the same
So why do we, just us, plea to know more?
Plea for more answers, prod through our veins and delve to our core?
And when the road reaches end and falls short of the shore
Why do we, just us, look to the sky
Clasp our hands and deplore?
Perhaps it's our grace; this need to have meaning
An absolute thirst that lets us keep dreaming
Perhaps there's no answer, none written in stone
Perhaps there's no answer
Because we were never meant
To have known