Yet am I born of a bias called love?
This despite the correctness
Of the detail of a linear purpose.
And that I am merely in procession,
Pointed in the direction
Of the Arrow of Time?
Is it I am governed by the Will of that
Which resides beyond the cycle of life?
That which being the very cause of The Cosmos,
Negates any incidence of Chemical Chance?
In my Attosecond life,
Am I not so isolated as science would dictate?
What latent discovery, bonds me to time,
When all to the good can be explained?
But none will listen to those intricacies,
Even fewer will understand,
So what is the good of that
Where is the good even in maps?
When no one needs to know
That is beyond all edges.
Save that your linear purpose
Is, as is mine, resident in that mind,
Which is beyond the reaches of space time,
Which was existing before the first helix.
Extra to theories of an electromotive slope,
There is descendant,
A bias towards a bias,
And that bias is called love.
© 2014-18 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved
If you were stimulated by this post don’t forget to like, follow,
share and comment!
You can contact me on:-
You can support me with coffee on:-
Here is a script for the unread.
A table of sequences,
As periodic as the Seven Ages of Man,
It about an unreasoned end.
And the grave exchanges of life.
It is written In the leaves of love,
Yet it is lost on those for whom
It has been written.
It stirs before the morning
Or even the egg,
Or even the season,
Or the sperm.
It’s a little after midnight
On the Adam and Eve,
Of The eve of just now,
Or its just after the eve of the Big Bang.
When the aftermath
When the Flash of Inspiration
Was in the cosmic wind.
There was no language to describe
Code and it’s accompanying notions
Were yet to evolve.
There was only purposeful chance.
All that was for certain was that
It was now well past absolute zero o'clock,
Therefore there was now a something,
And preceding, beyond this beginning ,
Might an X exist?
And now there was a hurtling.
There must have been a time.
So Time was established.
This being later equatable to truth,
It would not be believed
If it were not true,
Astral theorists take note
Proof can always be found.
But why postulate on events absurd?
© 2014 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved
There is no religion here
Along this knife edge,
Have we so evolved
It is unable to deliver,
It is only able to remove.
It will not compute,
It will however divide.
Those who reject the pattern
Those who would think about
There is no love here
At these edges,
How do we escape
There is no religion here,
There is no love here.
(C) 2018 Christopher Thompson
A = WP (without prejudice)
was written in England.