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The Stuff



Because nothing matters,
we decide what matters,
and I can think of nothing better.
Not that it matters.

If we are made of the fundamental stuff
of the universe, why shouldn't it respond to us?
Harder though it is, every day, to believe
the essential myth of I-will-be.

Complexity unto function is enough of a direction.
Everything that wasn't possibility has ceased,
continues to cease. Because it wasn't possible.
Probability is a bias that brakes our heart.

We would have everything locked
and hold the key,
but it is hard to keep a key
in a kingdom of envy and avarice.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.