just us words
He who drafted us and toiled with us and finally left us thus arrayed,
Not certain he is done, he left us as he came to us: strayed.
Chaos is the tendency of all things and life a motif bobbing on that stream
As all forces flow toward cold uniformity, joining, mixing, splitting, briefly resisting.
Desperate for the meaning, the tools of sense ask: Where is the sense?
From tools fashioned for survival, the appetite for meaning is an accidental byproduct
Forever reflexively scanning for portent, we have to drag in cause.
Just us words remain, fossil of a still coursing thought.
If all the letters on the spilled dice fell as a good sentence,
Greater yet would be the miracle that there was a reader for them.
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