A Man of Dust

A Man of Dust
James Dinsmore

Echoing voices, chants of rites;
Worship of day and fear of nights.
Religious symbols, persuasive words;
Hypnotic gestures, mysterious lords.
Darkness of sin, radiant light;
Mumbling lips, one fears the rite.

Blatant rejection, eyes on the ground;
Eager desires, rebellions abound.
Hypnotic power, not so intense;
Primitive gestures, sheer nonsense.
Days are finite, darkness clears;
Understanding rules and end to fears.

One awakens as the rite dies;
Loosened knots and dissolved ties.
Nature is real, the wind blows;
Reality speaks to he who knows.
He sees, but he is a mystery,
The planets are cold, the stars are free,
All beyond his grasp.

Silence ushers in the fear:
Of darkness, though nothing’s near.
Substance-less-void, but too intense;
Splitting nerves, a deceived sense.
Trembling, emptiness and doubt,
Confusion, he is cast about,
By his own mind.

He is just a man, composed of dust;
An orphan on earth, with no one to trust.
His security died when the temple fell,
Nothing to gain, no fear of Hell.
But he knows himself, and in this he trusts;
To make meaning of this man of dust.


Ye worship ye know not what: we know what we worship: for salvation is of the Jews. John 4:22