There are no giants, save for egos. <br />We all enter the world, <br />to the fanfare of our own wailing <br />and the cries of our mother'snatal pain. <br /> <br />There is no greatness, save the infinity <br />of the universe's expanding gases, <br />which places our facile, plodding, achievements <br />into an ever shrinking context. <br /> <br />There is no history, save that of Earth <br />in her timeless turnings, <br />we are and will be but anincident upon her skin, <br />a rash which will die. <br /> <br />There is no Salvation, for that would <br />imply transgression. <br />Our sentiency transgresses nothing <br />except the dying earth. No omnipotent watches. <br /> <br />There is no future, just the same thin drama <br />against the backdropp of insignificance. <br />We still die, lie, cheat and kill.just <br />more efficiently, and fiscally and for the watching millions. <br /> <br />We have no cure, only a futile hoping <br />in the dark of night. <br />Small implicit yearnings for solutions, <br />to problems, we’ve yet to know we have. <br />The planet will have a cure for us. <br /> <br />There is no mercy, save the sterility of cosmic oblivion. <br />All arts, all cultures, all technological wonders, <br />are but a tick upon the clock of time. <br />Out there are other sentients, like us <br />Simply, season’s blooms, in the garden of the universe.<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-the-atheist/
