Cool It



There is suspicion of intent

In everything, no purpose bent,

For living things must orient

Purposes where none is meant.


Nature cannot swerve or sway

To please a whim or calm a qualm.

It cannot cease or delay

To please a plea nor hear a psalm.


The past, we know, is rigid, static.

Future’s assumed wild, erratic,

Changeable, not automatic

And certainly not democratic.


Random action, some assume,

Bestows a kind of flexing choice,

Gives decision elbow room,

Permits a dissenting voice.


But mindless chance is an illusion,

Purposeless, total confusion,

Cannot unglue tacky sequence

From past cause and consequence.


Condemned, we are, by place and force

To run our predetermined course.

There is no strange external source

So, what the hell! Forget remorse.




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