Time’s Attic

Does the universe know of itself

without light giving

the floating residue of Time's attic

images of its ever-changing progress?

Archipelagos of micro-vortexes

listlessly clamor for survival

as sentient beings we,

hold tightly

our acquired beliefs,

our possessions,

our hubris.

Yet

Listening quietly

to the gradual attrition of our minds,

resolutely the invisible erosion of synapse

awaits simple sparks of illumination.

For

Just as the winged fluttering of the Papillion

sheds scales of beauty and color,

and attic memories forever suspend and collapse

expand and contract,

So too is not man's experience

merely a cosmic quiver of matter,

eventually jettisoning its used and worn

as celestial dust,

making room for future birth,

growth,

erosion,

perpetual movement?

Perhaps dust without light

is but infinity’s foreshadow,

awaiting Time's need

to shine illumination on

the infinitesimal substance of earth’s inevitable deemed dust.

Oh, if only such dust could evoke the remembrance,

stay aglitter to celebrate

the oneness of all existence,

continually stirring in

Time’s Attic.