Wisdom, like the phases of the moon;
to wax and wane between periods of darkness.
Quaking in the cave of terrors.
Pondering the future forms it must assume
when the Light returns.
Knowing it will be irrevocably changed.
To judge the past, yet again,
with a baleful eye cast skyward.
Beasts of our field of fears.
Safety in the prisons of our vainglorious expertise.
Guessing at dire futures with each data driven approximation.
Unheralded, the epiphany arrives,
and the cyclical wisdoms all agree:
it was for naught.
Doomed by the opiate of our ignorance.
And perhaps that is as it should be,
before the final harvest –
while the universe shrugs…