How tenuous our gift of Time becomes
when polished eyes are focused on the void;
around our spinning speck The Cosmos hums
with energies that dwarf what we've employed
to mechanize our quaint symposiums,
where we determine how much we have learned
from gazing at the endless suns beyond
and sifting through the meager light returned
like ants that search for crumbs among the dust
or other forms of life (of which they're fond).
Survival of the colony's a must
requiring a constant food supply;
our ignorance can never dim our lust
for that will be the day we surely die.
Are You Reading Me?
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