Beneath the Magnifying Glass

The soft shuttering of wings, like lips upon a cloud

approach the light; that singular call.

A beckoning like a blaze, a heat like an embrace,

so wantonly sought out - unrelenting.

Soft whispers guide the lost

to the welcoming light; the hubris of man.

To think you could reach this: the apotheosis -

the origin of all things, the freedom to shoot for the stars,

but the closer you get the more the wax melts,

and the more you realize the futility of that dream to reach the light -

blazing, roiling, destructive -

the quicker you will accept

that we're all just ants

crawling towards heaven's gate.