Am I a product of the earth,
Evolved from lower forms?
No soul, no thing of any worth
Beyond organic norms.
A swarm of dusty cells poured out,
Emerging from a mist.
A thing from which a soul can't sprout?
No reason to exist.
We're told, my friend, these theories are
Quite true; and yet, how odd
That minds that search beyond each star
Refuse to search for God.
Copyright, 1990
Maurice A. Williams