Supposedly, you are an accident,
arising randomly as all things to do,
and everything you feel your life has meant
is false, and only chemicals are true,
and anything we think a short life means
is just a tale to make ourselves feel better,
and life is just for spreading of our genes,
and truth, though it seemed sweet, is only bitter.
But in my depths, I sense this is absurd,
like thinking works of art could paint themselves,
and feel we haven’t randomly occurred:
we’re authored like the books upon our shelves.
I know this through my intellect and heart:
no accident, you are a work of art.
Mario A. Pita