My Religion

I am not immortal.
I quiver beneath
the mass of my thoughts.
They do, indeed,
make me feel heavy and,
at times, I crave
simplicity.

I realize
that this is a matter of
perception;
that my own two eyes
do not determine
the ultimate state of the world,
that good and bad are absent
in the grand scheme.

Humans are bundles
of concepts and molecules.
So wonderful,
so infuriating.
We are
self-important creatures
With delusions of grandeur
and purpose.
But what is a thought, a motive,
an emotion,
but an electric signal
dancing around
gray matter?

I have no religion.
I am not governed by
gods or
burning punishments
For the depraved.
Rather an imperfect consciousness
And the lust
For an understanding
a deep grasp of my fellow man
And the earth that grows
beneath his feet,
the stars that haunt his head,
and the words that issue
from his pen.