in any new dispensation
our moorings are torn
from the beds of sands beneath ageless seas
and we are adrift in a flux
that shattered generation after generation
of empire and custom and limits of consciousness
only the mercy of a god could contain
or the mercy of our blessed smallness...
grains of sand taking flight with each gust
to settle in new arrangements of some pliant landscape
the dust and dirt as old as creation itself
the energy itself there from the start
but the arrangements of matter as unstable as mere thought
in the same as ever dispensation...
Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.