Humbled.

Like glittering sequins on an inky backdrop,
the stars shone on that drunken night,
this old, old man sat out in his chair,
waiting for the final morning light.

He believed himself to be God's chosen one,
for who else but someone like he,
could have done all the things he had done,
and yet be a mortal merely?

For he was Achilles, he was Hector,
he was both a mother and a brother,
He was every man that ever lived,
even he that clicked those stones together.

He had been to the moon and back,
tunneled through water and air,
Lifted the weight of the world on his head,
stripped every challenge bare.

Invented both the wheel and the computer he had,
discovered fire in the first place too
lived through the dark ages and two world wars,
he had survived every coup.

His pulse rose as he remembered those days,
God's own image he was indeed,
for which other of His' six days work,
could compare with him in deed?

And as morning's warming light, bright shafts
touched his wrinkly face,
he closed his eyes,
to contemplate.

And he saw that tiny seed,
sprout that tiny sapling,
rent it's tough exterior, and reach
for that dark unforgiving cieling.

It wouldn't, it couldn't make it, he said
it never had a prayer,
yet bumping it's head against the paving stones,
it took in it's first gulp of air.

And sitting there, watching that,
He cried tears of lead, and mumbled,
"Forgive my pride Lord, I have sinned"
and he lay down dead, humbled.

Humbled.