Contemplation of Dust

Life is finite.

Our hands cradle a limited span,

time slipping through our fingers,

a mere blink in the eye of the Cosmos.

While the universe expands,

the body fades, recedes into dusk.

Time waits for no man. Our days

are numbered, a truth we know well,

yet we don masks of immortality,

shielded from Death's inevitable touch.

We defy the gods, build towers to the sky,

and for what? Even stone succumbs.

Do we grasp the meaning

of permanence? Do we ponder the far

and beyond? How certain are we

of what awaits? These questions linger,

elusive mysteries claiming space

in my mind's deepest reaches.

None escape the contemplation

of dust, but I refuse pessimism's gaze.

I'll embrace joy and sorrow alike,

for the end draws nigh, a reminder

to cherish each precious moment,

and give my time purpose and meaning.