Within our universal insignificance
Lies an ache, a thirst, for knowledge,
Existence indebted to dying stars,
Do they hear the questions that we ask?
Or do they turn away in shame?
Refuse to help the human name?
We fill with existential dread,
Will we learn the answers once we’re dead?
If only my conscience could help me sleep
For I’m far too tired of counting sheep,
Will the galaxies have time to spare?
Will they tangle up in human affair?
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling,
Desperately grasping for a new kind of feeling,
The emptiness of the unknown fills my stomach
As I wait for sleep to come again.
— The End —