Never Was A Thing Without A Cause Poem by Roy Ballard

The world is turning. It's the month of May
without the merriment. The skies are grey.
I only hear the sobbing, sucking sound
as brittle earth to sand and dust is ground.
A never ending mill. I hear the roar
of rocks and pebbles grinding on the shore.
Among them perfect spheres are never found
however long the rock is rolled around,
however much relentless energy
is lavished on each pebble by the sea.
Perfection is as real as fairies are,
the hope Pandora kept within a jar.
There never was a thing without a cause
yet everything grinds on without a pause.

Perfection was the state we started in,
as neatly packed as sardines in a tin,
a place for everything; things in their place
until creation kicked us in the face.
That got things going. Time began to run
with new uncertainty of what's to come.
The race once started, universe begun,
the game afoot, the players in a scrum
we soon began to feel confused and mad
to find again the order once we had.
'But what's behind it all' I hear you pray.
Well something is and no more can I say
than never was a thing without a cause
yet everything grinds on without a pause.