Life’s Own Story


Every life has its own story, a thread in the growing time tapestry
How could anyone even dare to believe they know which anchors it
Which strands fill the warp, the weft, support the surface pattern
Bright colors may stand out against the dun, but fade like all the rest

Humanity wrongly believes our story the most important, tells the whole
Yet remember, every life has its own story, the smallest, to the universe
Now we see the smallest building, changing, growing, so to render us
We believe these lives form a perfect union, so aware, we know us

All our destiny, manifest, perhaps the long trail, distant view says it’s so
The sum is far greater than the parts, but nothing much without them
Grass, a virus, a cockroach have a longer view, may know far more than we
As fast as we kill species, decimate ecologies, we seem determined to see

Don’t get me wrong, the world evolves, whole species die, life goes on
Strolling sedately down time’s lane, we may observe this patterned history
Even running, riding horseback, we pace ahead, though languid, leisurely
We, drunken, mad, blindfolded careen through the world with no regard

How many ways can I or anyone entreat, cajole, warn us to awake, see
We grower hoarse from shouting, screaming at a world with no ears
Our eyes are red and weeping, stumbling, blinded by our streaming tears
Minds numbed of thought and reason, afraid we create our final season

No lonely, floating clouds, no daffodils, seared to ash upon their far hills
No music, art or poetry, no tongues to speak, ears to hear or eyes to see
Horror, weeping sores, nerves screaming our disfigurement and agony
Starvation, murder, rape, incest, shame, crawling to death’s door, pleading

How will our cloth of history look just then, moments before it disappears
Bright colors, metallic reflections from war machines, guns, bombs, bullets
Flashes, ground brighter than the sun, burns away to char, smoke and ashes
Gaping holes where all threads are loose, unraveling, no image to discern

Merely a muddy drop of Earth, mired and moldering hope and promise lost
All driven by those too stupid or insane to care, to count the final fatal cost
Nothing, no-one left at last to mourn their or another’s savage, shameful loss
I only hope one small green swatch survives, to anchor, restart time’s loom sans us

Will we, can we step away, stand back and see the damage we have caused
Start to repair, restore, renew this, our only story, wise conservators at last
Understand once, for all and always that we are not the it, the all, the glory
Just a part of the sum, which yields the greater tale of every life’s own story


  1. Phil,

    The mysteries of “Life” had befuddled many and prompted much speculation, as you know. To think that Mankind is the epitome of creation and everything else uses us as a measuring stick – is sheer ignorance and arrogance.



    1. Peace indeed! Phil

      *Philip Brent Harris*

      The Pen’s Might

      *Brent Harris Fine Art

      Philip Brent Digital Art and Photography

      * The Extra Mile Art, shirts and other gift items

      Pacifica, CA 94044 650.515.0514 * * *


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