My Lasting Minutes

We chart the stars, we scan the seas,
We model minds with algorithms’ ease.
We number grains of shifting sand,
Yet still don’t grasp a heart in hand.

We code and count, we test and try,
To tame the storm, predict the sky.
But what of rage? Or love’s first flame—
That strikes without a face or name?

A man may kneel or start a war,
With no equation at his core.
He might forgive, or turn and kill,
And all by choice—not force or will.

We seek the truth in measured frames,
In spreadsheets, graphs, and weather games.
Yet every outlier we erase,
Is just a soul that won’t keep pace.

We’re not just mass, nor trend, nor sum—
We’re oracles that can’t be run.
We laugh, betray, revolt, create—
Then dance on ruins we helped make.

So forecast tides, predict the fall,
Map every rise from wall to wall—
But never think you own the spark
That drives the rebel through the dark.

For chaos sleeps behind our eyes,
Too wild for graphs, too sharp for lies.
And though we crave control and plan—
No code will ever cage a man.