We go about our daily lives
and generate a ceaseless drive
that can't be true
but is not a lie
a precious who
some sacred why
We doubt this is all
and obey ancient scrawl.
We cannot admit
that this is our end.
How audacious is it?
to think that we are godsend.
The works of the sentient
Human or alien
They fall short of black holes
And quickly will rot
But we bask in the soul
Of this pale blue dot
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