I embraced mitosis from an early age
surely to be the death of me;
cascading cells of coded future,
misspells my life: G, T, A, C.
A death professed on line 13
until such point perfection; then
as certain as it was random,
a frail, flawed, faulty gene.
What hope to live and love and laugh
when the elements which conspire
to steal my fragile existence are
not water, earth, nor wind, nor fire
but abstruse elements of chance and luck?
Pre-determined by evolution:
the science of obscure abstraction
concludes free will is chemical fiction.
With future knowledge of what will pass
there's one present choice that's still my own:
suffer the truth – its time its place;
or to not carry on?