Poem: pity this busy monster, manunkind

pity this busy mon­ster, manunkind
–e. e. cummings

pity this busy mon­ster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a com­fort­able disease:
your vic­tim (death and life safe­ly beyond)

plays with the big­ness of his littleness
— elec­trons deify one razorblade
into a moun­tain­range; lens­es extend
unwish through curv­ing wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                           A world of made
is not a world of born — pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but nev­er this
fine spec­i­men of hypermagical

ultra­om­nipo­tence. We doc­tors know

a hope­less case if — lis­ten: there’s a hell
of a good uni­verse next door; let’s go

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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