The Beauty of the Mystery

They just laughed and said ‘what use little rhymes in the face of cold dust erupting,
What will your words achieve when our machines blister skin’?
‘Nothing’, I say, ‘nothing will be achieved if you’re taking domination as your measure.
All I can do is hold on to the beauty of the mystery.’
 
‘Look at you, an empty container, grasping and gasping, as the beast finds its feet,
How will holding hands advance the project we’ll soon complete?’
‘It won’t’, I say, ‘but some things trip monsters even when they stomp,
That’s how we reach for the mystery of the beauty’.
 
They called back and said, ‘we’re bigger now than the rock falling from the mountain,
What use your verses and lines when we pierce the skin?’
‘I’m little more than a bubble in the fountain, a fleeting little thing,
I’m an acorn for a tree I’ll never see. Yet I plant a beautiful mystery’.
 
‘How can you resist when our world is mapped and conclusion drawn,
Why think your magical thoughts, never proven and not endorsed?’
‘You can talk’, I say, ‘with your fancy Singularity and grubby slew of intermediaries,
At least I still can see the beauty of the mystery!’
 
‘Your destiny is our complexity; we’ll tell you what to see and how to feel,
Painted puppets we know you are, your strings we pull to make it real…’
‘…Yet I can’t fill my book with bitter voices, I’ll have to slam the cover to those choices,
Embrace the beauty in the mystery’.
 
They laughed and said, ‘the decision has been made – and liberty was never yours to trade’.
‘Sorry, but your whims are not for me, your tedium on quick repeat,
I have no crowd, crusade or urge to join where trouble’s flee,
Since I noticed early the beauty of all this mystery’.