History Is A Poem

All the books ever written by humanity
come from a source growing faster
than the minds that read them
The plummeting depths
and racing edges
of the universe
lie barely scratched
What we know of ourselves
is not nearly enough to tame instinct

Ancient quill, stone and brush in hand
we climbed from caves to mountains high
looking back on our aging trash heaps
full of oyster shells and flint chips
We planted our favorite grains
and watched the quilt grow
knowing that we had
changed the earth

In the cradle of invention
we felt the presence of Gods
the ancient puppeteers of our minds
pulling cosmic strings, controlling the stage
We sought their favor and blessings
We anthropomorphized creating
poetic personification as
our ability to abstract
put its hands on
geometry

We began to build
the scaffold of sacrifice
and the vessels to transport
our souls to the home of the Gods
inventing heaven in the countless stars
We had to slice into mountains
and change the perfection
fascinated by our mind
as astonishing hands
became creators
infused by God-stuff
We became the receptacle
filled with the wine of Gods
the beginning of man, starting history
giving form to a written tale
Writing in many languages
the human experience
transcendental!

From thousands of years
we peer back at all the pages
searching for something to add
adding to all gleaming forms of Krishna
Hitler and Gandhi reading
the Bhagavad Gita
manifesting
different conclusions
What do our leaders read?
What future will be made of this?
The questions fall silent
On the material refuse
Of capitalism!