Matter doesn't matter, it's chemicals that scatter.
It's your food, it's air, it's water.
It's human and nature. It's infinite space around us.
It flows like rivers and falls like snow.
It's born, it lives and grows and grows.
Although, sometimes it goes awry. It turns foul, rots, and dies.
It's money. It's coin. It's gold and silver.
It has no reason like falling timber.
These things are things and that's all they are.
They do not make a persons life better.
And they do not persist a loving condition.
They all come to an end and they all return to the state they started in: A mode of universal fatigue, of slowing down, of ashes and dirt, an inability to do work or clean or hustle.
No roaring cities that climb and bustle.
The matter that matters is nothing at all.
A room full of nothing, no walls, doors, or windows.
No dirt. No ocean. No sky. No sun. No stars. No Milky Way.
And to this day no human has found a way to step outside the room; to step outside of minds.
Minds made of matter that splatter when matter is flung through matter, and things begin to tatter and die.
Like cribs we surround ourselves in this stuff.
And that's all it really is.
It's stuff.
Now take out the trash. I've had enough.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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