Oh little specklings,
so fraught with indecision,
so very frail,
so deluded in your exalted place in time and space,
you're unable to hoist
even a single
heavenly
sail.
Oh little ashlings,
rising from the embers of The Divine,
blown by the winds that you cannot tame;
so rife with pain,
your joy is to pine.
And whine.
Oh little dustlings,
so consumed by trivial things,
so amused by the simplest things,
and wistfully wrapped in daily drama,
so tortured by the here and now,
forever else,
and forever more.
Oh little meatlings,
blissfully ignorant of what you are—
in-sig-nificant,
a lightless star—
you're nothing else,
and nothing more.
Still. . .I want you,
Evermore.
© Copyright 2010 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.
