Cricket of the Gods

The ball of the Earth
Thrown round by gods 
In a vast universe 
Must feel tactile 
Not smooth 

The topography 
And ocean depth 
The buildings of 
Human invention 
Rough and spiky 

We humans wisps 
Babyhairs 
The gooseflesh of the planet 
Standing in our spots 
Perpendicular to the curvature 

Even if we raise our hands up 
In worship or adulation 
They can not see us 
Beings so small in the vastness 
Of this solar system, galaxy 
This universe 

We reach up and up 
Touching the sky 
But still far from 
The palm of the hand 
Of gods 

Our cries must go unanswered 
They can not hear us 
The infinite vacuum of space 
Fills their ears 
With the hum and rhythm 
Of the great beyond 

But still we reach 
We scream 
We invent and build 
We ascend to the heavens 
To affect their play 

Our satellites buzz 
Around the ball 
Like gnats 
Barely that 
Like fairyflys 

We struggle and strain 
Working each other 
To be more pleasing 
To make choices 
That are favorable 

To gods that don’t 
Have a notion 
That this little ball 
Contains life 
Or fire 
Or war 
Or love 

Small men see the expanse 
And attempt to make themselves 
Big enough to fill the gap 
Left by gods that do not hear 
Or comprehend our reverence 

Their desperation to amplify 
Made more bleak 
By their diminutive deaths 
Unnoted and unobserved 
By the gods they endeavor to replace 

A reminder to us all 
That even those that would 
Suppress and enslave us
Are still as slight 
In the presence of the cosmos 

Take heart little human 
While you cry in the shower 
A trillion stars reflect the light 
Of a billion suns 
And twinkle in our sky 

Those gods that hold us 
In the palm of their hands 
That bowl and bat 
Our little galaxy round the field 
In an ever expanding pitch 

Don’t know our suffering 
But also don’t know 
Our joy, our creativity 
Our need to place ourselves 
At the center of a universe 
That existed long before us 
And will continue to expand 
Long after this little ball 
Is no longer useful 
To the gods that pitch it 

When its grip has become 
Smooth with wear 
And we little beings 
Have moved on to 
The great beyond ourselves.

-- Kristin C., Adult