Bold. Blue. Megalithic.
To think I might have begun as a whispered word on an ancient’s breath,
a droplet in the spray of a neolithic sneeze,
the spatter in a sputtered warning, “Run!”
spit from a cloud,
delivered on an ocean breeze.
How many molecules has it taken,
pressed between frozen pages of time,
to create the storehouse of information I hold,
that has the power to drive
a shift from the existing paradigm?
What secrets do I hold, you ask?
What intelligence must I contain?
What wisdom am I willing to share
without whipping up yet another hurricane?
Megalithic, no more.
I fear my sweat and tears may be too late
Unless, you finally use wisely
the great knowledge you already possess.