Monday sonnet. A typical gourdian theme.
May. 14th, 2007 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fr_defenestratoCould anything in our imagined sphere
Be more absurd than faith? How can we claim
To understand a purpose, goal, or aim
Of human consciousness, or why we're here,
When all signs point to random? We so fear
Oblivion, we structure—like a game
Of chess—our narratives, and strive to tame
Horrific fate by making gods appear.
What penalty, though, if we acquiesce
To apathy, whether we're right or wrong?
And how could it suffice a smidgen less
To make it all up as we went along?
Certitude is the fabulist's duress:
Bereft of facts, I am content to guess.
Be more absurd than faith? How can we claim
To understand a purpose, goal, or aim
Of human consciousness, or why we're here,
When all signs point to random? We so fear
Oblivion, we structure—like a game
Of chess—our narratives, and strive to tame
Horrific fate by making gods appear.
What penalty, though, if we acquiesce
To apathy, whether we're right or wrong?
And how could it suffice a smidgen less
To make it all up as we went along?
Certitude is the fabulist's duress:
Bereft of facts, I am content to guess.
