What to make of this
thing we call Life?
Some offer answers from
the Book they say is “God’s”
while others assert and insist
it’s all a matter of random odds.
Perhaps we’re in a dream not ours—
but of the One Complete.
Yet if this be so, I wonder
more at His troubled sleep.
The oddest thing of all is that
I find it odd at all, absent
a memory of ... what?
Another life?
If this is all I’ve known,
what other world could I divine?
What mad notion compels me to
entertain something more sublime?
Then too, perhaps the dream is mine alone
to write and play as I may choose,
with schemes and scenes and lesser
dreams for others to consider thus.
If that, then have I the Gods designed?
Is my self-deception so complete?
Is such genius stuff in me so devised
to lay great Mysteries at my own feet?
Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.