by Jacob Lister
But on the creation we know no truths, Each sees the world from
Layers upon layers of solid rock, Are formed by a different angle, Depending upon what path
uplifting and weathering. The land they followed. Yet somehow we all still use the
chaotic, constantly changing, And same maps.
yet harmonic, acutely divine. Some may instruct us one way, slow events Shape
Here a river flows, eroding sandstone, the world, weathering is the answer. And some
Exposing the underlying see cataclysm, tectonics, And
granite, Bringing to light vulcanism as
new questions about keys to the earth.
the Integrity of the Evidence suggests the magnetic field At
exposed bedrock. which we aim our compass, and look to As a
An earthquake occurs, juxtaposing two source of guidance and direction Has shifted many times
Strata previously not comparable. One, clay soil, sculpted over the years.
to our every whim, The I am but a student
other, quartzite, hard, impeccable. of this planet, Striving, learning all I possibly can. Yet my
Glacial valleys, created long ago, As if knowledge never shall be
by some titan leaving his mark, perfect, Always one more fact til I'm
Dragging his feet in almost random enlightened.
trails, No surface pattern, but some underneath.
Learnèd people ponder on what forces There is no standard landscape, sometimes it Is anguishing
Created this land, and if it is strong Enough to to determine what's right, And perhaps the only ones
build upon, support such weights, Or if it will crumble, who know all The answers are those who now are fossils.
destroying all.