The Sovereignty of Dust

I walked to the lip of the world’s last ledge,
To the frayed and flickering human edge.
I saw the was, the is, the yet to be—
A surging, bending, salt-white sea
Of every soul and every race,
Lost in the folds of time and space.
Our thoughts are ghosts that grasp for hope,
Fraying ends of a heavy rope.
We scream for the wheel, for the hand, for the light,
While losing our grip in the middle of night.
How do we let go? the spirit cries,
As the ego withers and the shadow dies.
We are hanging here in a balance thin,
Frail as the dust where we begin.
Yet He is the Echo, the Boundless, the One,
The Shadow of wings and the fire of sun.
Indescribable, vast, yet hovering near,
To the “mere” and the “mortal” who tremble in fear.
We rush toward the brink of our own undoing,
Addicted to the wreckage we are constantly brewing.
We grasp at the gears, we fight for the lead,
With fingers locked tight in the talons of greed—
But the grip is being loosened; the knuckles turn white,
As we’re stripped of the power we claimed as our right.
Time is a river that twists as it bends,
Accelerating fast where the human road ends.
It feels like a chaos, a world come undone,
But the orbit is fixed by the Holy One.
We are dust in the balance, a groan in the dark,
Waiting for the Flame to find its spark.
He Was, He Is, and He Will Forever Be—
The Anchor of all that we cannot see.

©️ Deborah Seale 2026