Bill Bereza's Home of Programming, Info and Art
Slowly through the morning fog
Rolls the mighty shape
With tusk and trunk sunk deep.
It pulls the vegetation from the swamp
With teeth that crush and grind for us.
In the bowels of the mastodon we wait.
Swimming in an ocean of intestinal juice,
We have complete security from the
Cold and capricious world outside.
The food rains down and we digest,
And the rest of the mastodon
Helps itself to our waste.
We think we are in paradise, or hell,
This jail with constant temperature and food supply.
We are the life on whom the rest rely,
But we are quite sure we can not die.
After generations of steady life
Comes a time of death
Not for us; just for the rest,
And through it all we live.
We live along side the tortured cries
Of cells in their complex ties
Crushed in the collapse
Of their ordered way of life.
We were asleep when spears of ice
pierced and shredded their remains.
Still asleep when the scientists, a thousand years late,
Cut open the belly with their razor blades.
We are now alive without the ties
To the decayed and ancient mastodon.
Within the pearly shrine of a petri dish
We do not die, bu multiply forever.
Bill Bereza's Home of Programming, Info and Art
Last Updated on Monday, November 03, 1997.
