You don’t realize how small you are
until you walk along the promenade
and the streetlamps shine brighter than the stars,
the vapid glow of artificial luminance lingering
in a galaxy that was supposed to be a gift.
As turmoil ebbs,
comets laugh at the brine
that dares to spray them with the human condition.
You don’t realize this until your television flickers
with twinkling metal spaceships and the moon,
and an ignoramus are you
for once comparing them.
You are a doodad to the cosmos
a chess piece to the Earth
a pat of soil in the firm grip of Orion.
And as the guts of Earth erupt
and as archetypes collide,
sky crystals saunter down the Milky Way
into the flume of eternity.