The cosmos doesn’t consider my insignificant condition.
Nevertheless, I am unable to return the favor.
I can’t help but hurl thoughts, dreams, concerns –
Continually bothering the heavens with agitated inquires,
Sending again and again and again my mundane missives
Out into the vast something that seems to surround this perplexing existence.
Of course,
Whitman’s patient spider explored the same space, but with much greater dignity.
And yet, the desperation – the act of casting, projecting, hoping,
Hasn’t diminished in the noisy century that separates the silent spider and me.
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