There is nothing, I say, nothing, nothing.
There are no gods, heavens, hells, demons,
there is only the material universe.
(And yet, where did everything come from?)
There are no spirits, I say, no angels, no ghosts.
The mind is, and the mind creates.
(Yet I still attend to my Muse or there’s drought;
I admit that things come, don’t know whence.)
There are no psychic events, I say,
no mystical revelations, only coincidence.
(Yet the one time a crow cawed to me, up close, and thrice,
was the hour Molly died on the other side of the world.)
I say there is nothing. But I want there to be.
I laugh at religion, I sneer at belief.
I don’t want to die but, if there’s no soul, then that’s it.
(But we don’t understand, never have, never can.)
I turn to the scientists: quick now, halt age!
Stabilise first, then rejuvenate!
If we can break out of this pattern of death,
perhaps, just perhaps, the universe will unscroll, will make sense...
