Partial Pictures Poem by Edward Webb

We write lifes story,
from the fossils of death.
Yet what about the creatures of past, no fossil left

solving a riddle,
streamed answer inset is dreams,
and a dream worlds out of the box /box-less thought; where minds spring clean,

Sense made, by sub-conscious choice,
facts on which your sanity may lean.
creates individual reality
of every human thats been.

Each persons pandoras box,
conscious keys will open its locks?

The length of a second
can change with the wind,
for joy filled will pass all to soon,
yet one in fear will
loom.

A lot of life's quibbles,
understood of presume.
All answers seeked,
create questions all to soon.

measure this- to- measure that,
to exact a moulded fact,
what about un measurable fact
measures, unimagined to a fact not fathomed
Much is there that we don't see,
so do we measure pointlessly.

even Freedom, not real
for two laws govern what we do feel

Love and fear is the shackles of free choice,
all we do is inlay set like stone,
memories in human minds mean,
even after a moments gone.

All humans try's to be understood by others,
is this not the reason we seek lovers?

Life its self is not your choice,
you have no say in your own creation,
something you can question,
only after your formation.

all of life is paradoxical in terms,
for life means your death, a cycle that onward turns.

Black holes don't life fit
No light, from them emit,
yet central a galaxy one does sit,
spinning trillions of stars
in its gravitational pit


Do we forget in this maze,
the living of a life,
in all why? s haze

We preach, teach, dictate, and presume
yet none can know full a picture,
all just assume.

I feel wise to know, What I know,
the paradox of,
knowing nothing
of any a known, know,

I think therefore,
I am,
and I so make my show.