Farmland

I wander through life like a letter in a poem

Unaware, unsure, unconscious of its place

In a grand scheme; either profound or meaningless.

I close my eyes to see, jumbled letters in the dark

Symbols they taught, languages they spoke

And an abstract network of aimless thoughts.

What, could you tell me, does it mean to be free

In no land, with no air, in an endless sea?

So we ask questions of existence itself

No, not of us, but of God it seems.

And since there resides in deep dark pits

Tangled mess of history and space

Or may be not; but in delicate grace,

Do you God, or will I too go insane?

Whose quest is this, and which truth am I after?

Where does this machine cease to wander?

A life form of consciousness, of damnation

I ask, if you are God, then what is information?

I ask again, about the realms of disorder.

Are you really One, or a twin, beyond physical?

And why do I feel like a farmer

With a field fertile in capacity, but not a harvester?