The Whirring

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Pathways of the mind, wandering thoughts, detoured by suffering as much as certainty, and

attention to intention wanes with the onslaught of feelings—

vulnerable, sideswiped—

almost certainly erring, at least in part—and

the thoroughfare of mind-numbing thinking races unobserved behind this placid face and these guarded eyes.

And I would be lying if I told you it was all an exercise in mental agility.

And I would be lying if I said I didn’t care how things turned out or whether or not I solved my own difficulties, as well as the world’s.

And I could be trying to muffle the noise of all these crisscrossing thoughts and intertwined emotions, but this racetrack keeps running, lap after lap,

always seeming to drive nowhere—

nothing resolved, no destination,

but the whirring never stops.

I Wonder

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In every stained glass butterfly wing and every crafted hummingbird tongue,

in chiffon layers of petal upon petal, anther and stamen, centered strength,

I see your hand,

your mind,

your art, and I wonder

at those who could praise science and the randomness of process for these marvels.

There is a hunger for wonder, and here it is.

Wonder.

All around.

But to praise the source of it all as an impersonal, cruel nothing

rather than an intelligent, creative something—

Someone—

is to miss the love for the function and to miss intervention for happenstance .

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