I don’t know why we’re alive
or how we stay alive
beyond the plumbing
and electrical explanations
of how the living part works:
blood and fluids flow,
electrical impulses travel,
the stone my toe meets
makes an impact between my ears.
That’s not the whole of it
but more the minimum:
energy imbibed and spent,
galaxies of cells doing things
we’re unable to replicate
in full or otherwise
and yet we try.
We investigate and study and
often, against all odds,
figure it out, or the next bit.
And even though our ability
to scrape up a new life
is that most instinctive,
we learn to cling to that life
to cherish and swaddle it.
But there’s more still,
our ability to create
something new: a story
that inspires or horrifies;
a view, beauty never seen;
a theory, which someone else will
spend a lifetime and prove
surprising even themselves;
a slice of magic – how it all works.
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I like it. Your poem pretty much reflects what I think of life, but I did kind of lose the thread near the end.