At The Foot Of Mt. Driskill

We are but antlings, vain in our assumptions
We would presume to grasp at the unfathomable
We would presume to dress it as man, to give it names, to speak its intention
Yet we are humbled beneath the shadow of true greatness
Now the earth crest rises to meet our gaze
We are but fleas
We are but lice
We are nothing
Insignificant
Dust motes blown away by the breath of time
Vague memories of no consequence
Vanquished are the fires in the eyes of the friends I knew
Just as they are deafened to my wasted breath
Each one more wasted than the others you can bet
Now I see through the illusion of permanence
I am diminished in the presence of vastness
Useless are my tools of science, of religion
There is no understanding of limitless power
We are at peace in our minor, subordinate role
Accept our frail, short lives