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.