The Thinking Poet



We are, they say, made of star-dust.

Of how it gains life’s lubricant, science holds its tongue.

Neither can the sages say how dust regards dust,

Though of consciousness, many words are spun.

Consciousness strains towards solutions.

Brain is singled out as a malleable lump,

A marvel mirroring ambient dance of dust.

In its springtime it is pummelled into shapes,

Takes form that informs and makes a "me" to feel

The mingled joy and pain whose name is love.

Some claim love’s deception.

Dust, after all, is mere dust,

And love a trick that dust plays upon dust.

Others do indeed know love.

And even though this dust stagnates and things once loved grow tired,

Dust will make its final thrust

By waiving this apparent loss of trust.

Though love at times seems fleeting,

A dying, flickering flame from combustible stuff,

Phoenix-like it rises and surprises,

Though stars may cool and slowly turn to dust.