Mom wanted to put this one in the New Yorker. I thought she was kidding too.
Our existence is a mere tick of infinity.
In this undying void we call home,
Our perception is naught but a blur;
Too small and foolish to call our own.
As such, we find ways to make every moment last.
We destroy the planet we live on,
Devise ways to destroy ourselves,
And we always have someone to blame it on.
These actions can only last us so long.
As we uncover this truth and take it to heart,
Those moments become days, months, and years.
Soon, our collective lives finally start.
That’s when our existence becomes more than a tick.
We begin to make a mark on our home.
Our perception becomes clear, our purpose found,
And then we’ll have an eternity of our own.