The Minuscule Being
How small we are in this thing of dreams, no Wonder to enthrall,
How minuscule, how thinly masked, that grit that makes us tall.
We tower in our minds alone and revel in our ploys,
We think us greater than all else, and yet we play, as toys.
No deep thoughts linger to move the world, no depth in our perception,
We travel in a mindscape vision, mighty lost in the wrong perfection.
Towards end a light awakens me, the fog of thought now tiring,
How silly, was there all along, just lost in my self ‘miring.
The magic of life is simple and plain, it waits with patient breath,
The magic of life so willing, so game, to love us beyond cosmic death.
© 02/04/18 Stefan Bright
Letters From 500 