Dust

In the midst of a cooling universe,
we Earthlings
suddenly exist,

upon the crust
like motionless bugs,
suspended in space and time.

We invent gods
because physics cares not:
indifferent, omniscient before spirit,

unmoved by trivial calamity, neutral
to normalized inhumanity,
uninspired by mankind’s whimpers

of resilience. As the smog
of our own making thickens,
erasing the final traces

of natural grace
and sacred place,
we name ourselves significant.

We, meticulous arrangements
of star-born dust,
severed from the spiritus umbilicus,

persist—
the worst of us ubiquitous.
Physics cares not.