What We Dream of Turns to Dust

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What we dream of turns to dust While dust is more than we can dream. Time tumbles towards the faceless sea As we gaze at the waterfall. We are the marionettes of lust, As predetermined as we seem; Yet we are in ourselves as free As nothing on the brink of all. As we breathe each bated breath, And work our unabated will, And do our evil and our good, Not always clear on which is which; And wait unspeakably for death, With faith or not, for good or ill, We conquer every land we would, And rule a kingdom vast and rich.