Mystery or mundane

Are we just projectiles tracing paths in space and time,

trajectories determined by the heights to which we climb

Randomly occurring instances of flesh and thought,

observers standing distant to the world in which we’re caught

Using rationale found in the tongue of the detached,

a self-fulfilling prophecy of competition hatched

A view born of dominion making all a tool for man,

a linear tale with no return, and a missing escape plan

 

Or are we all gossamer threads within a web eternal,   

a sum in fact much greater than the parts we find external

A cosmic dance of equal parts regardless of their stature,

a hidden depth our narrow views completely fail to capture

A pond where ripples spread and lap against all distant shores,

where hurricane effects are born from a butterfly winged cause

Where responsibility’s the key, not pure exploitation,

the world is what we make of it, destruction or creation