A chemical soup churns an ancient recipe,
a salad of acids nuceic,
a pattern so oft flawed,
a twist & a turn,
livin’ up to the font of a God?
A nurture awaits the soup,
hands not always gentle, words not often soothing,
parsing the salad with a shifting key,
an encryption undefined, unbroken.
A million years of evolution,
moments, minutes and years punctuated by revolution,
ossify thoughts, behaviours and attitudes,
that season the salad, nay even shape its constitution.
What is one life? What of its experience lived?
Where does it come from, this feeling of uniqueness?
This yearning for a kinship amidst a fist of fingers alike?
As if the punch was conceived in the hand…
but willed in a far-away mind?
At NIF day 2 8 Sept 2018 & finished on Tippu Express 16 Sept 2018; edited