3/20/11

Who are the drivers in my head,

That steer me safely on my way?

When otherwise, I walk half-dead,

Remotely conscious, lost, and dazed.

Who are these pixies wielding will,

When mine own has none left to give,

As duties somehow stay fulfilled,

As life continues somehow lived.

Perhaps they always held the rains,

As, falsely, I perceived control,

Such vanity, now all in vain,

My next steps known not to my soul.

3/19/11

While tidying my home, I chanced to find,

That digging through odd clutter and effects,

Has sent me on a journey back in time,

By portals opened up from my neglect.

Old artifacts and fragments stowed and saved,

Or simply set aside and left behind,

A record that remains of older days.

My unkempt habits now become a shrine.

A capsule of my choices well preserved,

Receipts and scraps, a map of what I’ve done.

A loose collage of what my motives were,

A glance of who I thought I would become.

Such rubbish reconstructs my history.

Is this my waste, or wasted bits of me?

3/18/11

Necessity demands we build machines,

Then as these gadgets of salvation break,

A new invention must be forged to clean,

The damage that results from our mistakes.

And as time passes, if we come to find,

This clever cure has caused another ill,

Some new technology will be designed,

Which, no doubt, leads to further problems still.

If we should someday perish from this world,

We’ll meet the last day of our history,

Left treasureless for all our wisdom’s pearls,

And victims of our ingenuity.