Motes Of Dust Poem by Perry Shepard

The words have ran away
I chase them without dignity.
They humble me daily.
I do not tell others
Of the miracle of life.
No one would believe-
They already know or
Leave it to another
To give the answers wanted.
They never meet the souls,
That go on quietly amongst
The carpet and the walls
Travel down the street
Nondescript to look at,
Often failed to be seen.
Yet there we are, I cannot
Claim to be the only one.
I am but part of brothers
And sisters who rise
Or sink, yet moving steadily
Through man and womankind.
Shyly the role is given and accepted.
Some are poets trying to expose
The unseen world in its glory and calamities,
Some are musicians
Who call out life in all its manifestations!
There are the beasts that visually capture
Dreams, and desires,
The pain, and the desolation,
Our growth,
And in every way twist our view of life.
Oh! So many realities to embrace. Each
One part of the stream, each a treasure to itself
We the wayward know that it is right
To experience all the fodder of the world
And time itself, even using our meager efforts.
We plant the seeds that will flourish.
Farmers all, we spend our energies cultivating
Human potential, human waste, human insight,
Human inaction; and labor
Which is misdirected as an ends to itself.
Labor becomes the way to identify ones self.
Yet we the searchers know there are so many
Ways to identify your place in the Universe.
Don't get me wrong now, I am a small man
I am a small woman, we are here with you.
We are not beacons of light and wisdom,
Rather sturdy swirling forms that only
Are patterns of energy, and indistinguishable
From dust motes dangling in the sunlight.