Grounded

As a child
I dreamed of Achilles,
and of heroic fame won
on battlefields that never die;
with a certainty that someday
I would ride golden chariots
in the bliss of Elysian Fields.

And even today before I sleep,
I often hear Picasso
shuffling in my alley,
painting pictures of a restless Rimbaud
in china blue and raspberry hues,
whispering loudly for me
to step outside for a tea.

Yet, with the sunset approaching
I've come to know that
the light from our fires will always be dim.
The two minute mile can never be run,
and Orion's Belt will never be crossed.
The gods smile at our efforts
to hustle scraps of glory
as we vie for seats on the Titanic
with hopes of getting a penthouse view.

We can contemplate
the brain of a butterfly
and know that our creations
are but poor echoes;
that even
of the finest works
of Mozart and Michelangelo,
we may ask in the end:
"Is that all there is?"