2017 03 07
While sitting beside red brick wall at noon,
savoring the sweet eternal glow of light
threading atoms through fabric of my soul,
my mind projects strange vision of this hall,
where I work every day composing maps,
as it might appear in ten thousand years.
I see this brand new hall composed of bricks
shrouded by thick forest and draped in vines,
and spacious rooms now well-lit by glass bulbs
dark and tangled thick with huge spider webs
while all its doors long vanished in star light.
When some intrepid explorer, swinging blade
to hack away the hungry roots of nature,
stumbles on its ruins of red brick walls,
and steps slow through its halls into large rooms
full of tables where plastic boxes stand
mute and blank, will they recognize machines
that once glowed with tales in pictures and words
when they linked our minds in vast world wide web?
What weird monstrous angel, that will evolve
from my descendants, crouches in dim shadows
of this room where I generate virtual worlds,
and sing wordless melodies my brain dreams?
Nothing but dust crumbled from my dead brain
will remain, when even the wind and rain
shatters red bricks of fundamental truth
to goops of mud swirling in river flow,
nothing but my songs carved across my skull.
But who will hold my old skull in their hand,
gaze in bottomless vacuum of my eyes
to dream the history of our universe,
and wonder why I called myself some name
that lost its true meaning centuries ago?
As long as they not worship me as god,
and chant the words of spells that I compose
as holy scripture that describes the state
of life, the universe, and everything,
that will be illusions because no light
glows on the fluid substance of whole shapes,
then I will linger in the words I sing
and haunt the shimmering web of all their brains
while I code new myths in hall of my dreams.
I want to strip and swim in the cool stream
while savoring glow of my ancestral dream.