Before the ice had named us,
before fire learned our hands,
another thinking pressed its brow
against the dark and planned.
They walked a different angle
through the grasses, through the rain,
solved the stone with fingers
we have yet to train.
Perhaps they dreamed in colors
our sleeping minds can't hold,
spoke in frequencies of longing
too deep for us to fold
into language, into symbol,
into anything we'd name —
and so we passed each other
and mistook ourselves for same.
Millennia of divergence,
a quiet, branching art —
they grew into a grammar
we have lost the ears to parse.
No cave holds their image.
No bone betrays the clue.
They became so thoroughly other
that strange no longer grew
large enough to name them.
We search the sky for signs
of alien intelligence
and miss the older lines
pressed into the dark below us,
the path that split in two —
one becoming us, the question,
one becoming something true.
Subject: This poetry deals with the possibility of a parallel evolution of life a split in our own lineage occured perhaps deep in the past.
Note: Images have been generated by A.I and text has been augmented.
Good Day
