Hubris,
to think we can tame this world
In this hardly a twinkling of an eye time.
We believe we own this land.
Knowing we can shape not even a grain of sand
or fathom infinity in the palm of one’s hand,
Eternity contained in one beat of a heart is one mystery that eludes us still.

A Nightingale’s song on a branch put’s all orchestras to shame,
How ordinary they sound when measured against that creature’s tiny breast.
A piano needs a pianist.
A guitar needs fingers for sweet melodies to make.
Not the primadonna whose instrument is her throat
And the timbre of her voice is through her person conveyed.
Organic. Authentic. Nature made.

A cocks irregular crow at irregular times shakes the skin in all dimensions.
A howling dog at the almshouse gate portends a death no one else can.
The jackasses desperate bray causes even the insects to stir.

Every bawl of a butchered sheep rumbles through our person long after the cry has stopped
Here lies the wounded calf mourned by his doting mom even when made into steak.
She never ceases to low.
Even when the lion makes his final roar.

With commerce men rent the ground.
The cracks and fissures for a dollar,
smiles as suited cocksure men walk upon the bruised up ground.
We have tamed this land?
Sure.
How many sunspots and solar flares?
How many comets and asteroids have you seen?
To barge upon you and pierce your breast.
Four plus billion years.
The number of your days.
And now, in this silicone rich age,
we assume we will with plastic annihilate you.
Farce for fools puts buffoons at ease.
To think you will cave to this nuclear race.
Ha!
Hubris, my dear, makes a deluded son of a bitch.
And we wait for this, your coup de grace.

Image1,Image2

A little about me and poetry

This poem is my submission to the School Poetry 100 Day Challenge hosted by Hive account@d-pend, whom I would like to thank for sponsoring this competition. He is indeed a godsend. Though a bit dubious, I would consider myself an intermediate writer of poetry. My first love is prose, so if you get a feel of something other than verse in my poetry that is why. I use poems to assist me when I have writer’s block. This strategy, however, seems to be morphing into something more serious. At least I think so.

Thanks for reading.

Poem by: Hive account@nicholas83

Date: 5/31/18

Join the Steemit school at: https://discord.gg/hyfYQ9P