Picture this: you and I both
microscopic sand grains in the vast Sahara,
so easily swept away,
whether by storms or a breeze.
So fragile, indiscernible, inconsequential.
If only we were so fortunate.
Atoms of silicon,
part of a greater shifting contingent.
I get overwhelmed, at times,
by the scope of everything.
Far too great to care for us
or meddle in our vexatious affairs
for we are of narrow perspective,
unable to fathom the monstrosity of it all
and what brief a footnote we represent.
Amongst the stars, gifted with existence,
and we give ourselves to the bickering
mindlessness nesting within us,
when tears should stream not from the battles
but from the jubilation of being.
You and I are only passengers on this rock.
Nothing but tourists.
And someday this shape will be gone,
and we will serve the universe once more
in whatever form it need be.