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Such insignificant specks

On a tiny rock

Lost in time,

The edges of a space

Incomprehensible to all,

And yet how we cling

With unyielding grip

To our little victories:

Whose was the book,

Who wrote the word.

Who owned the sand,

Whose was the voice.

And who had you

In the dark.

We made our machines

To number our days

Each hour, each minute and less,

And hoped they would freeze

And hold us all there

In the moment we called our own,

We built us a place

To which to ascend

And find all our victories again,

But as dust on the wind

It was only a dream

Forgotten, as fleeting as breath,

With open-hand then

No reason to hold

Each moment a moment for one,

We let go the fear

Immortality’s hope

Built on victories so frail and

So small.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019