Love Poem 23
One has to wonder,
when all of this is over and
the sun has exploded
and the solar system is nothing more than
debris
floating through the cosmos
whether anything has ever meant anything.
If nothing matters, how can anything matter?
If we are all doomed to die, then nothing in this
whole damned existence
means a goddamn thing?
Some might say if that is all the case then we
need to create our own meaning,
that we ought to
imprint ourselves upon the earth and stones,
that we ought to
cast ourselves to the winds and the waves and allow
our very essence
to connect so deeply with another soul that
our energies become undeniable,
timeless,
and able to exist
across and beyond
all planes of existence.
And, yet,
creating meaning through love feels like a losing proposition,
feels like little more than hubris and egi,
as though shared love could be something that transcends
the Beyond.
But, is to be born simply to die not equally pointless?
What good can come from tasting the wind,
from feeling the sun and moon and hearing the rolling of waves?
Can feeling salt spraying upon one’s cheeks meaning anything
beyond
physical sensation?
What can satisfy the deepest yearning when there is no
point behind the yearning itself?
Could it be possible for the force of will of seven billion
people, focused on the deepest love
to be something that generates such
gravitational force
that even an existence decimated by a supernova
continues to exist?
