The Song Of The Atheist Poem by Bill Mitton

There are no giants, save for egos.
We all enter the world,
to the fanfare of our own wailing
and the cries of our mother'snatal pain.

There is no greatness, save the infinity
of the universe's expanding gases,
which places our facile, plodding, achievements
into an ever shrinking context.

There is no history, save that of Earth
in her timeless turnings,
we are and will be but anincident upon her skin,
a rash which will die.

There is no Salvation, for that would
imply transgression.
Our sentiency transgresses nothing
except the dying earth. No omnipotent watches.

There is no future, just the same thin drama
against the backdropp of insignificance.
We still die, lie, cheat and kill.just
more efficiently, and fiscally and for the watching millions.

We have no cure, only a futile hoping
in the dark of night.
Small implicit yearnings for solutions,
to problems, we’ve yet to know we have.
The planet will have a cure for us.

There is no mercy, save the sterility of cosmic oblivion.
All arts, all cultures, all technological wonders,
are but a tick upon the clock of time.
Out there are other sentients, like us
Simply, season’s blooms, in the garden of the universe.