our path is dotted with many hills and valleys

Crying babes
birthed from the mother’s flesh
rejoice in glorious ecstasy
at their own ignorance
of the human condition.

Light, in all of its fragments and rays, penetrate
through each holy begotten iris and
illuminate the geometrical intricacies that cover
a barren desert of soon to be upside down images,
things past and forgotten.

A yelp of joy -

no,
pain;
is it sorrow? -

resounds off the hollow walls of the operating room. 
Flesh on flesh.
The spilling of blood.
The groans of birthing pangs rise forth. 

This is not a different theme
but a second movement in the same symphony.

Worlds collide and gather
for mass, as mitosis takes effect. 
I am he and he is she and we
are all doomed to the same fate. 
The fate of dirt.

Even that bundle of flesh, bones, arteries, and all,
that creature who has just graced the Surface
must endure the same end as me and you. 

So what? the apprentice asks her teacher. So, what is it all for?
Look out before you,
then look inside of you.
Gather everyone and everything in, for that is the answer.