They use the wind.

The wind directs them,
carving a landscape,
eroding their past.

In the face of theology,
and rendered mythology,
for their vitality
they turn their backs
and use the wind
with gusto,
and allocate credit
in ingenuity’s name.

Thus pissing God off
some of them fear,
then set out to justify,
in the dawn of a storm.

The wind will direct them.
Forewarning each animal
too humble to fight him;
as they wait for their own,
and run into basements,
and wait out his passing,
inside the dark vacuum
enlightenment is argued,
and sediments of wisdom
in the fallen sand
conglomerates a dark horse
known by the name science;
but he was always there.

The storm passes.
Wind remains.
They give God the credit,
or they praise Carl Sagan,
for the lives that are spared.
As a rose is a rose

And the present a mere speck
to the scope of one hourglass
that has yet to stop spilling;
in unending races to meaning,
nearsighted and confounded
with nuances to divide them,
each is directed by the same-
in legend, myth, rumor,
and in every fact yet supplanted.

God is everywhere-
thus they remark him-
thus he remains.

Gases circulate,
all Saganites insist.
To surmise him.
Hot air balloons rise-
to inevitably fall-
to inevitable replacement.
Inevitably replacement
must be perpetual
in a world which both occupy,
in a world which both change.
But they praise themselves.
And use the wind.


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