The Smallest Mercies Can Save A Soul

I want to disappear now, into the smell of books, old ink, Moldy columns and perfumes of dried flowers. What keeps us alive, bundled into these bodies, Are incoherent strings of dna the gods of our existence, Do they determine if our days are mostly carefree Or slipstreams of inchoate agony? Does the loveliness of life arise from its randomness, Or the randomness from incalculable beauty? Why do some pay the ultimate price, And some never seem to pay anything at all? Is my breathing my tithe, a piece of each day that's unwound, Tribute paid to the universe, itself but one hallowed out-breath From the sphincter of time and inconceivable distance? I can wrap myself up in pages of words, in folds of paper Trying to cover myself in understanding, Yet no man holds the keys of what we are, Or what we are yet to become; faith is all we inherit In the orbiting chaos of time, we find once-living shreds of it Always in free fall, floating forever through the continuum, A whispered message from the secret heart of being, To never forget, that the smallest mercies can save a soul.