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