Pardon Our Dust

What's it like on the other side?
Are there seas?
Oceans full of people
like floundering fish
who struggle and sink
and think that just getting by is enough;
that a corner of paradise,
a corner office,
that a house in the 'burbs is enough for them.
Gentlemen, I want more...
because life's too short
for anything less.

Pardon our dust.
Forgive our transient, temporary forms
that fade in a gust strong enough to take them from us.
Overlook our blind lack of ambition.
For what fruitless creatures are we
to have fallen from so grand a tree.
At first, fleeting glance
it was only a hint, only a whisper, a chance...
"You will become something some day."
God's man in pop music.
What does that look like?
What does that even mean?

And what now?
What great king has called me out?
What great thing has he seen in me
to call this life a curiosity?
To what great task am I bound?
What a longing this is that dogs and hounds
my days by day
and my nights by restless feet,
sleepwalking awake.
An endless fate.
A dark dream which stirs in me
and stirs me still.

So I wonder if others see
the world for all its intangibilities.
Footfall on chalk lines
fresh layed across the dew
testing the measure of a field
that itself measures the test of a year
on one day where skill and circumstance yield
to the roar of a crowd which cheers
at a game. At entertainment. At face value.
What worth is there in entertainment?
What can be gained from a game?
How can my fifteen change
anyone?

Pardon my dust.
It's only temporary.
Renovations are on schedule...
destruction and construction;
the building up and tearing down of walls.
You see, there was a fire
and it took from us hope.
And it took from us peace.
And it took from us time.
And unlike so many things in this withering world,
time is in short supply.

For we are but dust, even the greatest among us.
The builders, the workers,
the frail and the fraudulent.
So what now?
What great king calls me out
to sit among the ashes
and wonder what happened?