Here we sit, or maybe we stand, in a glass world filled with tiny sand. And this tiny sand, we watch slowly fall, makes us question our existence, and if we ourselves shall fall. With pencil in hand, we write about our lands, and where we think we have come from.

From a grain of sand they say, that’s where we all came, and so we sit and we ponder. Great pyramids we see, pointing to the heavenly stars we can’t reach, wondering what else may be out there. We search and explore, our solar system and more, not knowing what we may find when we get there. So we make a golden disk, and send it off into space, not knowing who or what may find it.

As time goes by, we still have no reply, but maybe they came and they left us. All they see is war; they thought peace was in store, from the golden disk that we sent them. So they go back into space, without even a trace, or maybe they are hear and we don’t know it. UFO’s in the sky and the government lies; they say there are no records. What is to be done now, we are all in a shroud, with the fake news that they try and show us. Look this way they say, it’s the old hand trick play, and many are still fooled by this magic.

Not I you say, the truth I will see, so you search and look for answers. The end I can’t write, it is yours not mine, but we all seek some answers. One of my questions I seek is the improbability, of this world we live and breathe on. From a grain of sand it’s said, that’s where it all began, but were did this sand come from. Improbable I say, as I type away, and look to the stars for answers.

Is this a poem? Or are you Yoda?