Poem of life

Each day we write a poem called life
A rhythm we all know
Waking, working, playing, all
routines we can’t let go

But as the rhyming days fly by
Through seasons spring and fall
We cannot help but wonder now
The meaning of it all -
What is it that pulls on the heart?
Is life itself a curse?
And why do the sun’s rising rays
Mock us every verse?

“Specks of dust in endless space!
Blips in schemes of time!”
Yet herein, power to create,
To twist the grand design

The power to know ignorance
To question all there is
To look at space, and dream “One day!”,
To conquer the abyss

Conjured into existence
Through probability
Now sending waves ‘long cosmic sands
All by their own decree

When all these rhythms writhe through time
When aeons take their toll
From edges of the universe
When sonnets sing of souls
When tomes of cosmic history
All dream of yesterday
Their pages filled with poems of awe
will speak of us, and say,

“They thrived not through a stroke of luck
Nor moments of pure shine
They built with blood, sweat and tears
through constant grind, and time
Through dull monotony of life -
The poem of every day
Everyone in every time
Rhyming, toiling, away”