Time may be a human invention but death isn’t.
Should it seem odd that we can even conceive infinity?
But without that concept would there be any others?
Would thought even be possible?
The brain can’t work with limits.
It is what rubs, what resists.
It refuses to sit in its skull,
ungrateful mollusk.
But who can breathe in the gaps of ignorance?
The brain is only doing its job.
And Stephen Hawking in that chair
flew higher than anyone.

Mark Kerstetter is an artist and writer from St. Petersburg, Florida. He is the author of One Step: prayers and curses and The Mockingbird Sings.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Limits

  1. Pingback: Limits | Kanlaon

  2. Pingback: Eunoia and Panoply | The Mockingbird Sings

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