We Are Such Things...

What stuff are creatures such as we made of
If creatures such as we compose dreams?
Those fickle, glittering beacons
T'wards which we flit like moths between the stars,
And which crumble at our touch.
What makes Man, Man,
Drawn up from the deepest chasm of the Earth
Or pulled down from the angels' beds?
Are we such beings, fallen with a bump,
Our wings plucked like petals from a daisy chain?
Were we belched up from the sulphurous hollows,
Left worn and warped, still smouldering in our savagery?
Are we just as fallible
As any lost lover's whispered wish,
Anguish dripping from his brow in solitude?
Are we just as starved as his lips of a kiss?
Are we simply a casket of fizzing ions
And elements given our own clunking, clinical names,
Or are we much more than we ourselves can know,
Ever fathom or label or explain?
Are we meant to carry on here
Where we are what we see and nothing more?
Where Man is just Man,
Nothing better, nothing worse
And a dream is but a dream.