top of page


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

bottom of page