a poem by Phil Cerasoli, USA

Long after western sun has set
I smoke the day’s last cigarette;
I sit outdoors and watch the starlit skies.
Soon the moist air starts to drape
Around my shoulders like a cape
As Orion strikes his pose before my eyes.

And in those moments of repose
A feeling deep inside me grows
That clears my mind of all the worldly fog.
It joins the stars in outer space
Reminds me of my humble place:
A speck of dust; a tiny cosmic cog.

And I wonder as I sit,
Trying to make some sense of it…
Trying to assess the role of Man.
Souls of sages, souls of fools
Held in place by molecules;
Microscopic parts of unknown plan.

We’re forced to walk down hardship’s path;
Forced to suffer Nature’s wrath,
Compelled to look for enemies to slay.
Urged to pick a single God
From several, each with Golden Rod,
Then decide to whom we sacrifice and pray

And amid the sound and fury
Life creeps on with little hurry
Unconcerned with all the conflict and debate
Over why it is we’re here;
Living, dying on this sphere;
And what will be each person’s final fate.

And I’m tired of all the noise
And of mankind’s lack of poise
And I’ve closed my ears to what most have to say.
And I choose to meditate
Different avenues of fate
To see if I can settle on The Way.

So I seek the final answer,
Just a tiny cosmic dancer
Waltzing on this endless universal stage
Knowing as I dance the dance
There is very little chance
Of The Answer ‘til I reach my final page.

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