A moment is never singular, exactly; it is obvious nothing on This Earth lasts.
Even with a God, People obstinately search somewhere to ground the spar tree,
The focal point, the axis, the Self.

Molecules have been examined down to Music; infinite harmonies taking perceived shape,
With each element ever-changing as our senses are tuned.
Particles are waves of color, our own hand turning the kaleidoscope.

Vainly a self-deceit of lasting solidity harbors the illusion of power to hold fast
the fluidity of this cherished existence, like collectively barricading a levee
between our perpetually sinking firmament and the inevitably rising sea.

Ink fades; paper burns; stone crumbles.
But imagine by tenacious persistence we succeed in preserving at least some thoughts,
In digital binary a corked message hurled over entropy into a hot, dry future.

Comprehension itself would surely evolve away,
abandoning our I's and 0's in their past,
bits scattered from a broken bottle useless in a windy desert.

By dumb luck our toes have kicked the dust from remnants, mysteries of the Ancients.
Sandblasting time has reduced their instructions for miracles down to perplexing sketches,
littering a roofless sun-baked labyrinth of echoes.