Until the Air of the Compensatory Dilates

The universe is nothing but a furtive arrangement

of particles. Chaos claims all. People will disappear.
Meanwhile, feeble light traversing empty skies
reaches our eyes. Human action is free and stripped

of meaning. Good & evil are Victorian fictions, culled
from the past. All that exists is egotism. Cold, intent, radiant.
Though short-lived and vain, sex provides meager compensation.
Transcendence, invented by well-meaning drudges,

claims the uniqueness of the individual. What joy!
We remember our lives only a little better than we do
a novel we once read. Yet our species, barely different
from apes, carries within it noble aspirations.

O beat that drum, wistful hope, that something survives,
even if that something is not ourselves.

Geoffrey Young

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