© 2018 Vernon Miles Kerr
What purpose would everything serve
An eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent
What purpose, anything, temporary?
But all is temporary:
From the far-flung Galaxies
To our grinding continental plates,
To the squalling infant at birth.
All, here-today; gone-tomorrow.
When the sun has grown to scorch the Earth
To a crisp cinder,
What will remain?
The Creator’s memory?
To what purpose?
What purpose, human life?
The violent, bloody, painful launch;
The hunger, fatigue—the desires,
Both fulfilled and not.
The friends and family expired,
Once urging, cajoling, entreating, kidding,
Only a memory; or set of same.
Changing, unreliable memories.
The “great” men and women,
Just memories in ink and stone,
But still, memories alone,
Which memories, when our own lives end
To one, truly eternal,
It would all have to be pure tedium:
A continual flashing, coalescing, exploding,
A video-game that has been won;
No longer a challenge; devoid of surprise.
But if such a one could infuse
Us, pitiful, fleeting blobs of protoplasm
With a retrievable pinch of his own eternity,
A pinch of permanence on loan—
Then experience would be eternal,
Memories cast in a substance, truly of substance