The World is But A Speck Of Sand

By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989

The world is but a speck of sand, lost in an eternal desert;
a spinning space-mote, producing night and day in an infinity
of nights and days.
Darkness and light and again the same...
And we, it's inhabitants, collect nobility like coins
to be squandered.
And we are unique and this gives us dignity...
And we walk erect and we laugh and we cry
And we think and make tools with our opposing thumbs
And we are our own deaths.
This makes us men.
This gives us pride,
so that we view the frightening infinities of space and time,
of darkness and light,
the shear nothingness of the void,
the untimely pains of ending.
So that we view it with timely contempt
and dream and dream of what ought to be.
This makes us men.
This makes us great

Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved

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