The Torch Of Time
Back through the swirling mists of antiquity
Back through the night, to the dawn.
When man first emerged from the primordial slime
that was his birthright.
Not wise, not strong, not always right but
never wholly wrong.
Man the unquenchable, Man the endurable.
Devouring himself with the sorrows of his own existence
Preyed upon by his own insatiable appetites.
Forced every upward
propelled by his own colossal ingratitude.
Experimenting, though not tempered by experience.
But by the bumbling trial and error of time.
Carrying his torch
Though his life span be but a Pimple upon the
Buttocks of eternity.
Never knowing, never caring
intoxicated by his own boisterous ego.
And reluctantly dying, as another runner plucks
the Firey Wand from his expiring grasp.