The sky is not our own.
We toil beneath it,
Scramble in the city streets,
Move with steady labor
Up and Down the Furrowed Earth,
But the sky delights to ignore us,
Its vastness like one great eye.
Upon this shadowed dot
We spin our lives
In tales of immortality,
But the night in silence
Tells the horrid truth.
The timeless face, too immense,
Ignores our outreached hands.