Drop Poem by John Prophet

We are
custom made.
Custom made
for this
place,
from this
place.
What we
know,
who we
are,
what we
think,
indigenous.
Springing up
from the
core,
squeezing
through
the rocks,
out of the
mud.
Primordial scream!
Our senses,
how we relate
predetermined
by this place.
Every fiber of
our being
determined
by a mote of
dust lost
in infinity.
Programmed
by uncertainty.
Following instincts
layered
onto our
souls.
Believing
we are free.
Free in a prison,
a preprogrammed
prison on a mote
in a void.
Life in a
drop of water.
All we consider
significant
isn't.
Here,
is where
we bubbled
up.
Here,
is where we'll
dry up.
A puff
of dust
in the breeze.
A blow to
the ego
this is.
A little
more humility
surely applies.