My thoughts turn wondering back to
my tiny conception, when all that
would be of me existed in this union
of egg and sperm and my humanity
as a male was decided for me and
was activated in moving towards the
point of writing this existential poem
and contemplating my lost beginning,
my birth, the growth, the life that unfolded
and the choices that perhaps were not really
choice at all in the hidden order of things.
One act of pleasure and connection led to
this poem, which itself is a secret act of
passion and giving birth to a thought that
has been thought countless times across aeons of
sex and conception and growing up to realise
the truth of your being vulnerable in the world.
And then, as I write this poem (as an older man,
greying, sometimes wise, often the fool who wants
this world to be better ever if it is cursed),
my mind shifts to my demise, the great inevitably
that lays its slight hand across all of us in turn.
My consciousness turns to this time when my mind
and body will be laid aside and cast to the universe,
and it will be as if egg and sperm had never met and
my life and this poem will drift away into nothingness,
which is not our choice in this life with only one certainty,
unless heaven exists and god is on his throne laughing
at me, pointing with his crooked finger and saying,
I told you so, this is the truth, it is all absurd.