Dimensions of the Kaleidoscope

Like motes of dust in the morning sky,

we are but ants in the sea of space,

How petty it must seem in the Cosmo’s view,

this thing called the human race.

Such shallow lives we live each day,

never fully to comprehend,

The abstract truth of what really lies

around the uncharted bend.

There are many ways to live one’s life-

so many things in which to believe,

And yet so far, since time began,

it's ourselves that we deceive:

What did the Egyptians gain from their morbid art,

to make hallow of their dead,

When now we see in the unburied past

that their gods and Death have wed?

A googolplex is no closer to infinity

than is the number one,

Just as we are no closer to unveiling the truth,

with all the madness done.

Our lives with time become intertwined

with paradigms of enlightened hope;

The mosaics of thought, the cultures blend,

like dimensions of the kaleidoscope:

Phantasmagorical arrays of colors conflux,

like assimilations of worldly views.

The mind of man, the Artist, strives

to weed out the tainted hues.

But then: ‘Ignorance is bliss’ – the old adage,

no maxim is as likely true;

The events’ horizons fade to black,

with no light to guide us through.

What shall lay hold upon the mind of man

that it may stand and see that time commands

the past, the present, and the future ways

that man will seek in his dying days

to sum the pursuits of invented whims,

to please the gods of assorted dins?

And how foolish will he feel just then –

in knowing that everywhere he’s been,

that every thing he’s seen and heard,

were the lots of Spoil and Absurd?

For who shall remember the quiet One,

who sat and watched what came undone,

when cultures molded man’s thinking ways,

with stones of penance, myopic praise,

when the dying cried in reason’s ear,

when faith departed, caved into fear,

when the stars shined down in Omen’s name;

a life that was born for only death to claim.

And what has become from the points diverging,

to the trumpet sounds of many voices urging,

that imparts to us such complex schemes,

to manifest and evolve man’s dogged dreams?

And then we see through the portal’s past,

that nothing created was ever meant to last –

all that has failed were not the ‘dreams sublime’,

but the symphonies of destruction

within the Sands of Time.