Breathing Atmosphere


  • Philosophy

    Breathing Atmosphere

    I have often wondered where our breath goes
    after it leaves us.
    We exhale a vaporous cloud into the atmosphere
    and then what?

    I imagine billions of beings breathing in, then out
    in unison like one great lung.
    Creation's atmospheric breast swell's with life, then
    exhales the carbon-dioxide poison.
    Where does it all go?

    Breathing in, breathing out like a great big accordion
    with no sound played.
    Life giving, life taking is sucked in then out
    in each breath we take
    from the atmosphere around us.

    Perhaps like pouring a bucket of water into the ocean
    our breaths are only absorbed into
    the great, impersonal atmosphere all around and about us
    neither adding nor subtracting from its substance.

    I much rather hope that breath is added to breath
    to make up an ethereal choir
    the cacophony heard singing the vitality of living beings
    like whispers in the tops of pine trees .

    All our years of breathing in fresh atmosphere and
    exchanging it for used up gas.
    Do we leave more behind than we take in
    our lifetime or are our breaths measured out carefully
    in finite supply.

    When that last breath is taken then released
    emptying the lungs one final time
    the wind and spirit no longer return because
    they are forever released to freely float, mingle, and wander among the atmosphere, winds, and clouds.
    One breath joined with all breathing.

    Perhaps one day my spirit will float upon the breath
    of creation, carried along by its winds to places
    I have not yet been.
    Released from the hardened form of my body and mind,
    my spirit, like my breath upon the wind, then
    may blow wherever it wills.

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    Agape commented on Breathing Atmosphere


    :) Thank you for causing me to think :)

    tinygirl commented on Breathing Atmosphere


    i liked your poem it made me actually thing of what happens when im nolonger on earth it sota sounds like one of the poems i wrote very unique keep up the good writing

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Weatherstone’s Poems (40)

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