Tuesday, March 20, 2012


  Not space, but death, will be our last frontier
  And always has been since we’ve known we’d die,
  As poets like sage Homer and Shakespeare
  Have sung, in epic or in lullaby.

  That bourn from whence no traveler returns
  Except as dubious specters in our minds
  Remains mysterious and all query spurns
  Of scientific and empiric kinds.

  Perhaps, then, there’s another way to seek
  The secret heart of such an ancient quest,
  Transcending knowing at the very peak
  Of consciousness, where certainty’s possessed:

       Such mystic, cosmic consciousness makes clear
       That nothing’s lost and all shall reappear.