Microcosm

Microcosm
James Dinsmore

In the macrocosm life and death,
Reverberates as an infant’s breath;
Frail and soft, thin and cold,
A cycle that cannot be controlled.

Up the hill, and down again,
So is the lonely path of men;
We are required to earn a dream,
But enjoying it is seldom seen.

A race that we are forced to run,
That makes us old and sick and numb;
No time to ponder why we breathe,
Just keep the pace to pant and heave.

Living on in words are lucky men,
Whose life has shined beyond their end;
How often have we stopped to look,
At the choices that will write our book?

Or must all things glow and die,
As an ember that soars across the sky;
How much will be preserved of us,
Besides our lonely trail of dust?



The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Psalm 90:10 KJV