Nothing more halts the brain,

  than thoughts of processes that go on, and on again.

May I beseech your mind, or likewise, will you at least feign?

For this thought is not one I merely think in vain.

 

I stood at the edge of the world, and cast a stone deep into space.

How the rock soared - but where it went there is no ample trace.

If I stand on the precipice and cast a second out,

  do I have reason to think it will return back about?

For if the rock tumbles further from this place -

  surely it means we’re not just confined to our humble base.

 

The opposite conundrum is the coup de grace;

  for if the stone returns from whence it came -

  our firmament is not just our own,

  and we share in an infinite vastness of space.

 

So goes the unending call of the universe,

  echoing to the reaches because being unbounded is our curse.

In the frozen confusion one will find;

  lays another unmapped landscape for which only time is its bind,

  but one day that may not be true, and then will our puzzle wind.

 

Suppose I cast a pebble into the recesses of the mind . . .

 

-W.B. October