From Zero, something in the blackness stirs,
Unaware, but still its there, — and growing.
Forming to a blueprint, — a miracle occurs;
New and blank and empty, even itself not knowing.

From darkness it is forced into light so revealing,
Reeling, and feeling needs it can’t understand.
With a sensory onslaught, it finds itself dealing
With existence, a gift from a ‘mightier hand’.

It stands, learns to speak, and begins to know;
Touching and clutching, and reaching out.
In lands it seeks, and its sins it shows;
Blundering, wondering what it ’s about.

We have to find the reason, before we fade and go,
Or is it just to wonder, to ask and never know?
It’s a terminal disease, this thing that we call life.
Sexually transmitted, via our father’s wife.

It is like a risen island, surrounded by sleep,
A spark in the dark, that is seeking the sun;
Just a windblown leaf searching for its tree;
Brief escape from the darkness it cannot outrun
.
In travel it searches, for an unknown reward —
The missing something it never can find.
In silence it listens, and strains for ‘the chord’,
But hears only silence and stays just as ‘blind’.

It looks out from eternity — to a moment its own;
It has mysteries to solve and searches for something:
But for all its sense of purpose and however much it ’s shown,
The laws are set, the cycles turn: — it changes not one thing.

There has to be a reason, for a life that ’s so complex.
Is there really a purpose, or is it merely death and sex?
It’s a terminal disease, this thing that we call life.
Sexually transmitted, via our father’s wife.

As the brightness dims and it loses what it learned
Going back to that early confusion and pain;
With the ‘strange gift’ passed on – this creation ’s returned
As the dark calls it back to Zero again.

There is a sea of flickering lights, hanging in the dark;
Worlds of heat in an endless cold – Fragments of the spark.