Dust

DUST

True, we are but dust in the wind, but dust made bold by its embodiment!
What but this dust, in these times, would dare to reach out for a star?
Mere disembodied dust does not dream of looking to such heights
or climbing so far,
but sits quietly content in dark forgotten corners,
oblivious to the open reaches of space.
But we, embodied dust though we might be,
must look outward to the heavens,
whether we deem it a choice or no.
This is the singular mystery of our race:
That always, there will be those who must look up
And point to space,
though all that necessity requires is here
within our quick, encompassing reach.
These questioning, outcast children of men do not
understand their own restless gaze;
ponder seemingly wasted minutes, hours, days,
wherein they turn their eyes outward to space!